THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


a 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS, 


By  HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES 

THE  FOUNDATIONS  OF  A 
NATIONAL  DRAMA 

containing  lectures  delivered  to  Harvard,  Yale 
and  Columbia  Universities;  at  the  Royal  Insti- 
tution, London;  with  other  lectures,  essays  and 
papers  on  the  Drama,  and  photogravure  por- 
trait of  the  author. 

THE  DIVINE  GIFT 

A  play  in  three  acts,  with  dedication  to  Professor 

Gilbert  Murray,  LL.D.,  Regius  Professor  of 

Greek  at  Oxford,  and  photogravure  portrait  of 

the  author. 

THE  LIE 

A  play  in  four  acts,  as  played  by  Miss  Margaret 
Illington. 

OTHER    PLAYS    BY 
HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES 

The  Silver  King  The  Rogues  Comedy 

Saints  and  Sinners  The  Physician 

The  Middleman  The  Liars 

Judah  The  Manoeuvres  of 

The  Dancing  Girl  Jane 

The  Crusaders  Carnac  Sahib 

TnE  Tempter  Mrs.  Dane's  Defence 

The  Masqueraders  Whitewashing  Julia 

The  Case  of  Rebel-  Joseph  Entangled 

lious  Susan  The  Hypocrites 

The  Triumph  of  the  Dolly  Reforming 

Philistines  Herself 

Michael  and  His  Mary  Goes  First 

Lost  Angel 


HENRY   ARTHUR   JONES 


The  Theatre  of  Ideas 

A        BURLESQUE        ALLEGORY 

AND 
THREE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 

The  Goal 
Her  Tongue 
Grace  Mary 


BY 

HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES 

Author  of  "The  Liars,"  "The  Divine  Gift,"  "Foundations  of 
a  National  Drama,"  etc. 


New  York 

George  H.  Doran  Company 


TO 


Copyright,  1914,  1915 
CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1915 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PEEFACE 

The  following  pages  contain  essays  in  bur- 
lesque, serious  drama,  comedy  and  tragedy — that 
is  to  say  in  all  the  forms  of  dramatic  art,  with 
the  exception  of  romantic  drama.  When  any  coun- 
try produces  any  one  of  these  forms  of  drama,  and 
clothes  it  in  literature,  it  may  claim  to  have  a 
National  Drama.  Outside  literature,  a  country 
may  produce  many  deservedly  successful  plays 
which  rightly  amuse  its  populace ;  but  it  can  have 
no  National  Drama.  It  is  only  when  the  best  of  a 
country's  modern  plays  pass  into  its  literature, 
and  when  also  they  pass  into  the  repertories  of 
theatres  with  sustained  traditions  of  great  acting 
and  authorship,  as  at  the  Theatre  Franeais — it  is 
only  then  that  a  country  has  a  National  Drama ; 
or  that  its  theatres  are  anything  essentially  dif- 
ferent from  a  conjurer's  show,  a  candy  store,  a 
child's  toy  shop,  or  the  anteroom  to  a  prostitute's 

boudoir. 

Of  the  productions  of  the  late  Victorian  stage, 
Gilbert's  burlesques  were,  if  not  the  greatest,  yet 
certainly  the  most  charming,  the  nearest  to  per- 
fection ;  on  the  whole  perhaps  the  most  satisfying. 
But  Gilbert  never  dared  to  smite  the  great  vices 

5 


» 


6  PREFACE 

and  insincerities  of  his  time.  Or  perhaps  he  was 
not  aware  that  any  existed.  He  would  scarcely 
have  been  successful  in  the  theatre  if  he  had  at- 
tacked them.  So  he  merely  scratched  at  small  so- 
cial and  political  foibles  and  infirmities,  and  he 
remains  a  delightful  dilettante  in  satire.  A  meas- 
ure of  Gilbert's  views  and  aims  is  given  in  the  fact 
that  he  never  allowed  a  word  or  an  idea  to  stray 
into  Savoy  opera  that  could  give  his  young  lady  of 
fifteen  a  hint  that  she  was  not  a  large  wax  doll.  It 
is  not  a  complete  view  of  human  life  which  repre- 
sents us  as  large  wax  dolls.  If  we  wish  to  take 
Gilbert  for  a  great  satirist,  a  great  burlesque 
writer,  we  must  not  mention  Aristophanes,  Rabe- 
lais, Swift,  Butler  of  Hudibras,  Butler  of  Erew- 
hon,  or  Lord  Byron. 

I  have  long  cherished  three  hopes  for  myself 
which  I  fear  will  never  be  realized — to  stop  a 
night  at  Dijon  on  my  way  southward  and  drink  a 
bottle  of  old  Burgundy  at  the  Cloche  Hotel — to 
get  a  week 's  leisure  to  read  Hooker 's  ' '  Ecclesiasti- 
cal Polity" — and  to  write  a  burlesque  for  the 
English  stage. 

What  a  jolly,  riotous,  instructive  art  burlesque 
might  be  on  the  English  and  American  stages! 
What  a  roaring  feast  of  healthy  laughter  it  might 
provide  for  our  citizens !  Comedy  pricks  us  with 
a  rapier  through  our  correct,  conventional  every- 
day dress.  Irony  kisses  us  on  the  cheek  while  it 
slyly  stabs  us  under  the   fifth   rib.     Burlesque 


PREFACE  7 

strips  us  bare  to  the  skin,  and  then  lays  on  with 
bludgeons  and  clubs  and  ninetails,  while  it  romps 
and  shouts  around  us.  Comedy  can  best  deal 
with  knaveries  and  follies  and  vices  and  shams  as 
they  are  shown  in  individuals.  Burlesque  can 
best  deal  with  knaveries  and  follies  and  vices  and 
shams  as  they  are  shown  in  communities. 

How  many  falsities  and  solemn  fooleries  and 
hypocrisies  rankly  flourish  in  English  and  Ameri- 
can life,  and  call  loudly  for  the  reckless,  bois- 
terous whacks  and  thumps  that  only  burlesque 
can  administer! 

Every  discerning  American  who  visited  Eng- 
land in  the  ten  years  preceding  the  war  must, 
I  am  sure,  have  been  struck  with  the  immense  pos- 
sibilities that  Englsh  life  offered  to  the  burlesque 
writer.  But  in  place  of  genuine  burlesque  we 
had  the  witless  banalities  and  sniggering  indecen- 
cies of  musical  comedy;  supported,  as  it  was,  by 
all  that  was  powerful  and  fashionable  in  the 
press  and  in  society.  We  may  look  that  war  will 
cleanse  away  many  of  our  English  falsities  and 
fooleries  and  hypocrisies.  But  burlesque  would 
have  been  much  cheaper  and  more  amusing — 
though  perhaps  not  so  effective  or  permanent. 

If  I  had  followed  my  natural  bent,  I  should 
have  planned  "The  Theatre  of  Ideas"  within  a 
succinct  framework,  and  written  it  as  a  play.  But 
what  dramatist  to-day,  with  any  knowledge  of 
what  burlesque  might  be,  would  foolishly  produce 


8  PREFACE 

a  burlesque  of  national  and  social  follies  and 
shams,  with  the  certainty  of  thereby  damaging  his 
reputation  with  playgoers,  and  ruining  his  man- 
ager? I  have  therefore  thrown  "The  Theatre  of 
Ideas"  into  narrative  form. 


It  is  a  discouraging  sign  that  neither  on  the 
English  nor  American  stage  is  there  any  demand 
for  one-act  plays.  These  should  be  widely  sup- 
ported, as  a  valuable  school  for  young  playwrights 
and  young  actors.  "The  Goal"  was  written  in 
1897,  and  I  had  to  wait  seventeen  years  before  I 
could  get  anything  approaching  a  suitable  repre- 
sentation. It  was  produced  by  Mr.  Holbrook 
Blinn  at  the  Princess  Theatre,  New  York,  in  Oc- 
tober, 1914.  It  received  very  generous  apprecia- 
tion from  the  New  York  press,  and  I  hope  to 
offer  it  again  to  American  playgoers. 

The  writing  of  ' '  Her  Tongue ' '  pleasantly  occu- 
pied me  during  a  leisure  week  in  Spain  a  few 
years  ago.  It  might  perhaps  fill  a  corner  in  a  bill 
without  any  danger  of  boring  the  audience.  No 
such  fate  could  be  hoped  for  "Grace  Mary," 
which,  however  unlike  it  may  be  to  a  Shakespear- 
ean tragedy,  would  probably  be  equally  successful 
in  keeping  people  out  of  the  theatre. 


PREFACE 


A  dramatist  is  often  reproached  for  producing 
plays  that  are  obviously  below  the  standard  of  his 
aspirations,  and  obviously  below  the  level  of  his 
best  work.  This  assumes  that  the  dramatist  is, 
like  the  novelist,  always  free  to  do  his  best  work. 
There  could  not  be  a  greater  mistake. 

The  dramatist  is  limited  and  curbed  by  a  thou- 
sand conditions  which  are  never  suspected  by  the 
public.  The  drama  will  always  remain  a  popular 
art.  The  dramatist  who  writes  a  play  too  far 
ahead  of  his  public  is  like  the  statesman  who 
makes  a  law  too  far  ahead  of  the  customs  and 
morals  of  his  people.  The  law  is  circumvented 
and  disobeyed  ;  it  can  not  be  enforced,  and  thereby 
all  law  is  brought  into  disrepute. 

The  dramatist  who  writes  plays  too  far  ahead, 
or  too  far  away  from  the  taste  and  habits  of 
thought  of  the  general  body  of  playgoers,  finds 
the  theatre  empty,  his  manager  impoverished,  and 
his  own  reputation  and  authority  diminished  or 
lost.  No  sympathy  should  be  given  to  dramatists, 
however  lofty  their  aims,  who  will  not  study  to 
please  the  general  body  of  playgoers  of  their 
days.  If  a  dramatist  has  something  to  say  that 
the  general  body  of  playgoers  will  not  accept,  let 
him,  according  to  his  message,  say  it  in  the  pul- 
pit, or  on  the  platform,  or  in  a  pamphlet,  or  in  a 


10  PREFACE 

novel.  For  instance,  how  much  better  employed 
many  of  our  harum-scarum  dramatists  would  be 
as  presidents  of  social  debating  clubs.  How  much 
better  employed  many  of  our  Pentonville  omni- 
bus dramatists  would  be  as  photographers  of 
slums,  or  of  the  yet  more  dreary  abodes  of  our 
middle  classes.  There  is  nothing  worthy  of  ad- 
miration in  persuading  a  theatrical  manager  to 
lose  a  thousand  pounds  a  week  in  producing  some 
tract  or  message  that  could  be  easily  printed  for 
a  few  shillings.  This  does  not  imply  that  the 
drama  should  say  nothing  and  mean  nothing.  But 
we  must  not  place  the  crown  of  martyrdom  on 
the  head  of  a  dramatist  who  has  bored  the  pub- 
lic, ruined  his  manager,  and  deprived  himself  of 
his  own  vogue  and  authority  with  playgoers. 

Let  us  listen  again  to  Goethe.  He  says, ' '  Shake- 
speare and  Moliere  wished  above  all  things  to 
make  money  by  their  theatres."  Goethe  is,  of 
course,  speaking  of  them  as  managers.  They 
were  like  all  other  theatrical  managers.  But  they 
wished  to  make  money  by  offering  their  public  the 
best  plays  that  their  public  would  accept.  Here 
they  were  startlingly  unlike  some  modern  theatri- 
cal managers.  There  are  horrible  fortunes  to  be 
made  in  some  kinds  of  theatrical  management. 
So  there  are  in  keeping  brothels. 

The  question  to  be  asked  concerning  a  dram- 
atist is — ' '  Does  he  desire  to  give  the  public  the  best 
they  will  accept  from  him,  or  does  he  give  them 


PREFACE  11 

the  readiest  filth  or  nonsense  that  most  quickly 
pays?"  He  cannot  always  even  give  the  public 
the  best  that  they  would  accept  from  him.  In  sit- 
ting down  to  write  a  play,  he  must  first  ask  him- 
self, ' '  Can  I  get  a  manager  of  repute  to  produce 
this,  and  in  such  a  way  and  at  such  a  theatre  that 
it  can  be  seen  to  advantage  ?  Can  I  get  some  lead- 
ing actor  or  actress  to  play  this  part  for  the  bene- 
fit of  the  play  as  a  whole?  Can  I  get  these 
other  individual  types  of  character  played  in 
such  a  way  that  they  will  appear  to  be  something 
like  the  persons  I  have  in  my  mind  ? ' ' 

These  and  a  hundred  other  questions  the  dram- 
atist has  to  ask  himself  before  he  decides  upon  the 
play  he  will  write.  A  mistake  in  the  casting  of  a 
secondary  character  may  ruin  a  play,  so  narrow  is 
the  margin  of  success.  But  when  once  a  play  is 
started  and  advertised  it  can  be  played  in  an  out- 
rageously insufficient  or  mistaken  way  and  draw 
the  crowds. 

These  considerations  show  that  it  is  rarely  pos- 
sible for  a  dramatist  to  show  his  best  work  in  the 
theatre  under  our  present-day  conditions. 

His  best  chance  comes  immediately  after  a  great 
popular  success  which  has  given  him  vogue  and 
authority  with  playgoers.  He  may  then  venture 
to  say  to  the  public,  "Kind  friends,  won't  you 
come  up  a  step  higher  ?  "  He  may  then  venture  to 
give  them  his  best,  though  he  may  know  that  he 
courts  deliberate  failure. 


12  PREFACE 

This  has  been  my  practice.  After  the  great 
popular  success  of  the  ' '  Silver  King ' '  I  produced 
"Saints  and  Sinners."  It  was  the  best  I  could 
do  at  that  time.  It  was  hooted  on  the  first  night 
and  condemned  by  nearly  all  the  London  press. 
It  narrowly  escaped  failure,  and  only  obtained 
success  through  Matthew  Arnold 's  generous  advo- 
cacy, and  because  of  the  discussion  caused  in  re- 
ligious circles  by  its  presentation  of  certain  phases 
of  English  dissenting  life. 

Since  "Saints  and  Sinners"  I  have  not  been  so 
fortunate.  After  the  great  popular  success  of 
"The  Dancing  Girl,"  I  produced  "The  Cru- 
saders." I  gave  William  Morris  carte  blanche  for 
the  scenery  and  furniture,  and  he  advised  me  on 
the  whole  production.  I  engaged  the  best  pos- 
sible cast,  filling  even  the  small  parts  with  actors 
of  great  ability.  It  was  hooted  and  booed,  and 
again  I  met  with  the  general  condemnation  of  the 
London  press.  I  lost  four  thousand  pounds,  and 
had  to  go  out  and  collect  the  general  public 
around  me  again. 

After  obtaining  another  popular  success,  I 
wrote  "The  Tempter,"  which,  in  print  before 
production,  received  the  most  lavish  praise  from 
so  fine  a  literary  critic  as  the  late  H.  D.  Traill. 
Again  I  met  with  failure,  and  a  cold  reception 
from  the  press,  losing  much  money  for  the  man- 
ager; and  again  I  had  to  go  out  and  collect  my 
general  public  around  me. 


PREFACE  13 

After  one  or  two  more  popular  successes,  I 
wrote  "Michael  and  His  Lost  Angel."  It  was 
savagely  hooted  and  booed  by  a  first-night  au- 
dience at  the  leading  London  theatre.  And  again 
I  met  with  the  general  condemnation  of  the  press. 
Here  I  think  the  public  would  have  saved  me,  for 
the  business  was  going  up  by  leaps  and  bounds. 
After  the  eighth  performance  the  managers, 
without  giving  me  notice,  announced  its  sudden 
withdrawal  on  the  following  Saturday,  the  elev- 
enth performance. 

I  was  then  fortunate  enough  to  get  from  Sir 
Charles  Wyndham  and  Miss  Mary  Moore  a  very 
finished  performance  of  my  comedies,  and  they 
were  uniformly  and  universally  successful.  But 
whenever  I  have  found  leisure,  I  have  employed 
myself  in  writing  plays  without  any  consideration 
of  production  in  the  theatre.  Of  such  are  "The 
Divine  Gift"  and  the  pieces  included  in  the  pres- 
ent volume.  Out  of  consideration  for  the  man- 
ager's pocket,  I  have  not  offered  "The  Divine 
Gift"  for  production. 

I  hope  I  may  be  forgiven  for  intruding  this 
personal  matter  by  way  of  excuse  and  explana- 
tion. In  no  case  do  I  blame  or  arraign  the  pub- 
lic, who,  in  the  theatre,  will  always  remain  my 
masters,  and  whose  grateful  and  willing  servant  I 
shall  always  remain.  Indeed,  under  happier  aus- 
pices I  think  that  most  of  the  work  I  have  here 
reviewed  might  stand  a  chance,  or  would  have 


14  PREFACE 

stood  a  chance,  of  some  degree  of  popular  success. 
But  that  a  dramatist  may  be  successful  with  his 
best  work  he  needs  the  vogue,  and  a  theatre  and 
company  suited  to  his  methods,  and  a  public  that 
can  understand  him  at  the  first.  Every  dramatist 
who  respects  himself  and  his  public  should  print 
his  plays  either  before  or  after  production.  This 
will  give  playgoers  a  measure  of  their  intrinsic 
value. 

Unfortunately,  it  will  not  confer  immortality. 
I  throw  these  little  pieces  into  print,  and  dismiss 
them,  feeling  secure  that  they  will  soon  reach  their 
goal,  that  goal  where  we  all  swiftly  tend — 
unsuccessful  and  successful  playwrights  alike; 
minor  and  major  poets;  demagogues  and  kings; 
even  football  stars  and  pretty  vaudeville  actresses 
who  have  their  portraits  in  the  papers  arrive 
there  at  last — the  limbo  of  unconsidered  and  in- 
considerable things. 

New  York,  January  5th,  1915. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface        ........  5 

The  Theatre  of  Ideas:  a  Burlesque  Allegory    .  17 

The  Goal:  a  Dramatic  Fragment     .         .             .  101 

Her  Tongue:  a  Comedy  in  One  Act       .         .         .  127 

Grace  Mary:  a  Tragedy  in  the  Cornish  Dialect 

in  One  Act  .......  151 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS, 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS, 

A  Burlesque  Allegory 

"We  are  justly  more  impatient  of  the  stupidities  and 
extravagances  of  our  own  party  than  of  the  stupidities 
and  extravagances  of  our  opponents;  for  whereas  the 
stupidities  and  extravagances  of  our  opponents  often  fur- 
ther our  aims,  the  stupidities  and  extravagances  of  our 
own  party  are  often  our  most  serious  hindrances. 

"The  greatest  enemies  of  a  movement  are  its  eccentrics 
and  extremists." — Archibald  Spoffobth,  Maxims  of 
Policy. 

Not  far  from  where  I  live  a  handsome,  pre- 
tentious building  has  been  gradually  lifting  its 
walls  during  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years.  Costly 
decorations  have  been  spread  over  its  surfaces, 
with  curious  mottoes  inlaid  in  scrolls,  and  writ- 
ten apparently  in  some  remote  and  foreign 
tongue,  for  the  characters  are  not  recognizable 
as  belonging  to  any  European  language.  The 
edifice  has  an  air  of  self-conscious  importance, 
almost  of  sublimity.  A  broad  flight  of  marble 
steps  leads  up  to  an  imposing  portico.  ''Evi- 
dently a  temple  of  some  kind,"  has  been  my 
inward  comment,  as  I  have  occasionally  passed 
by. 

19 


20  ,THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

One  day  I  mingled  with  a  number  of  persons 
who  were  reverently  climbing  the  marble  steps, 
and  passed  with  them  into  the  building.  To  my 
astonishment,  I  found  myself  in  a  bare  and  mean 
interior,  which  presented  a  startling  contrast  to 
the  proud  and  lofty  exterior.  The  place  was 
dimly  illuminated,  except  at  moments  when 
jets  of  light  darted  up,  and  then  left  a  sense  of 
bewilderment  and  darkness.  The  atmosphere  was 
chilly,  with  occasional  gusts  of  hot  and  cold  wind. 
The  chief  pieces  of  furniture  were  a  number  of 
very  modern  statues  on  pedestals ;  ten  or  twelve  in 
prominent  front  places,  considerably  larger  than 
life,  and  one  small  bust  in  the  background.  Just 
at  the  moment  I  did  not  distinguish  whom  the 
statutes  were  intended  to  represent,  for  my  at- 
tention was  caught  by  a  fairly  large  crowd  of 
eager  spectators,  above  whose  heads  appeared  a 
swaying  figure  whom  they  were  enthusiastically 
applauding. 

I  went  up  to  the  crowd  and  gently  elbowed  my 
way  through  them.  When  I  was  near  enough,  I 
saw  that  the  swaying  figure  was  valiantly  astride 
a  large  wooden  rocking  horse.  The  animal  had  an 
elegant  arched  neck,  abnormally  distended  nos- 
trils, and  fixed  menacing  eyes.  I  have  never  seen 
a  rocking  horse  with  better  points  and  propor- 
tions, or  one  that  looked  more  like  a  real  horse. 
Across  its  hind-quarters  was  painted  in  large  gilt 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  21 

letters,  PEGASUS.  I  could  not  see  that  he  had 
any  wings,  but  these  may  have  been  hidden  under 
the  embroidered  blue  and  gold  saddle  cloth.  The 
horse  altogether  was  very  nobly  caparisoned,  and 
had  a  silver-mounted  bridle  with  tinkling  bells. 
The  rider,  too,  was  gorgeously  arrayed  in  a  ca- 
valier dress;  he  had  large  gilt  spurs  and  carried 
a  drawn  sword.  His  seat  was  firm  and  courage- 
ous ;  he  could  not  have  borne  himself  more  bravely 
if  he  had  been  riding  a  real  horse.  He  accom- 
modated himself  very  gracefully  to  the  animal's 
action,  and  every  now  and  then,  as  he  saw  his 
chance,  he  plunged  his  sword  into  an  invisible 
enemy's  body,  or  with  a  well-aimed  stroke, 
chopped  off  his  head.  He  was  evidently  much  in 
earnest,  for  the  sweat  poured  down  his  face.  So 
thoroughly  was  he  animated  by  his  cause,  so  truly 
did  he  possess  the  spirit  of  the  latter-day  social 
reformer,  that  the  fact  of  his  enemies  being  ab- 
sent miles  away  made  no  difference  to  him.  He 
simply  stabbed  away. 

On  the  further  side,  over  the  spectators'  heads, 
was  a  bandstand  in  which  were  ranged  sixteen 
drummers  and  two  trumpeters.  The  drums  were 
all  very  large  ones.  Under  the  bandstand,  and  in 
front  of  the  spectators,  were  seated  a  number  of 
journalists,  who  were  busily  taking  notes  of  the 
proceedings.  A  few  of  them  were  doing  it  as  a 
matter  of  business ;  but  the  greater  part  of  them 
appeared  to  be  genuinely  impressed  by  the  pro- 


22  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

ceedings,  and  some  of  them  were  enthusiastically 
sympathetic. 

The  horse  rolled  magnificently  backward  and 
forward  on  its  wooden  stand,  and  when  the  rider 
executed  some  daring  feat,  the  trumpets  blew  a 
fanfare,  the  drums  boomed  out  their  thunder, 
the  journalists  quickened  their  pencils,  and  the 
spectators  burst  into  torrents  of  applause. 

"There's  horsemanship  for  you!"  exclaimed  a 
burly  man  at  my  elbow,  in  the  intervals  of  shout- 
ing "Bravo,"  and  clapping  his  hands. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  I  cordially  assented.  I  am 
something  of  a  horseman  myself,  but  I  have  a 
natural  aversion  from  all  argument,  and  it  pains 
me  to  destroy  people's  illusions. 

' '  And  what  a  horse ! "  he  enthusiastically  con- 
tinued. 

1 '  Yes,  what  a  horse ! "  I  agreed. 

The  spectators  applauded  more  wildly  than 
ever.  Pegasus  rocked  backward  and  forward  on 
his  stand,  attaining  a  larger  segment  of  the  circle 
at  each  roll;  the  rider  spurred  and  hacked  more 
fiercely.     I  have  rarely  seen  greater  enthusiasm. 

' '  Can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  this  building  ? ' ' 
I  asked  of  my  burly  neighbour. 

"This  is  the  Theatre  of  Ideas,"  he  replied. 
1 '  You  might  have  known  that  from  the  statues. ' ' 

I  then  perceived  that  the  large  brand-new  stat- 
ues in  the  front  were  those  of  members  of  our 
most    recent    schools    of    publicists,    politicians, 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  23 

essayists,  dramatists,  and  novelists;  but  I  could 
not  recognize  the  small  bust  in  the  background. 
After  a  little  peering,  I  discovered  that  it  was  a 
slightly  damaged  image  of  Shakespeare.  He  was 
placidly  and  blankly  staring  at  the  rider  of  Pe- 
gasus. 

"What  is  the  gentleman  on  horseback  hacking 
at  ? "  I  asked  of  my  neighbour. 

"He  knows!"  was  the  emphatic  response. 
"Some  part  of  our  social  system.  What  does  it 
matter  which  ?  There  are  plenty  of  social  abuses 
to  be  reformed." 

I  suppose  my  features  must  have  conveyed  some 
expression  of  doubt  or  bewilderment,  for  he  se- 
verely inquired :  ' '  You  don 't  deny  that  there  are 
heaps  of  social  abuses  that  loudly  cry  for  re- 
form?" 

"No,  no,"  I  hastily  responded. 

"Then  what  does  it  matter  where  we  begin?" 

I  saw  that  I  was  going  to  get  the  worst  of  the 
argument,  so  I  edged  a  little  away.  He  came 
fiercely  up  to  me. 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  very  partial  to  Ideas," 
he  remarked. 

"Oh  yes,  I  am,"  I  protested.  "I  love  them, 
but " 

I  stopped  nervously. 

"But  what!"  he  threateningly  demanded,  with 
a  tremendous  emphasis  on  the  "what."     "Are 


24  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

there,  or  are  there  not,  social  abuses  that  cry  out 
for  instant  reform?" 

The  man  was  evidently  a  skilled  debater.  I 
dislike  very  much  to  be  posed  in  this  way  by  per- 
sons of  an  intelligence  superior  to  my  own,  so  I 
thought  it  prudent  to  change  the  subject. 

"lie  rides  well,"  I  said,  appeasingly. 

"I  should  think  he  does  ride  well,"  was  the 
answer. 

"And  the  horse  has  good  points,"  I  added. 

He  grunted  a  kind  of  assent,  and  I  moved 
further  away. 

I  discovered  afterwards  that  neither  my  burly 
neighbour,  nor  any  of  the  other  spectators,  had 
the  least  suspicion  that  the  horse  was  not  a  real 
live  horse. 

I  thought  I  should  like  to  go  over  the  building 
and  learn  something  of  its  aims  and  policy  and 
methods.  I  therefore  inquired  for  one  of  the  di- 
rectors, whose  name  was  printed  in  very  large 
letters  on  several  notices  that  were  posted  about 
the  place.  I  was  taken  up  to  him  and  told  him 
I  should  like  to  look  round  the  place.  He  showed 
the  most  amiable  readiness  to  meet  my  wishes, 
and  said  that,  as  he  happened  to  be  free,  he  would 
himself  show  me  over  the  institution,  and  ex- 
plain its  working.    I  thanked  him  very  much. 

' '  What  do  you  think  of  the  architecture  of  our 
Theatre  of  Ideas?"  was  his  first  sentence. 

"It  is  very  imposing  on  the  outside,"  I  said. 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  25 

"Nobody  could  fail  to  be  impressed  by  the  fa- 
cade. ' ' 

"We  have  taken  many  of  the  features  of  the 
building  from  the  Theatre  of  Ideas  in  Laputa," 
he  said;  "in  fact,  we  have  modelled  ourselves 
very  much  on  them  in  all  our  arrangements. ' ' 

"I  suppose  they  are  making  great  advances 
over  there, ' '  I  said. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  and  made  a  gesture  of  help- 
less admiration,  unable  to  express  itself  in  words. 

"But  we  are  rapidly  catching  them  up,"  he 
remarked  cheerfully.  ' '  Our  range  of  subjects  for 
discussion  is  already  almost  as  wide  as  theirs, 
and  our  debates  are  quite  as  exhaustive  and  in- 
conclusive. Then,  again,  we  have  opened  nego- 
tiations with  the  House  of  Commons  to  take  over 
all  its  purely  vocal  functions,  so  as  to  leave  it 
free  to  register  the  decrees  of  the  Government 
without  a  single  word  being  spoken  by  any  mem- 
ber." 

I  said  I  thought  that  this  would  advance  the 
business  of  the  nation. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  exclaimed,  "they  haven't 
got  as  far  as  that  in  Laputa. ' ' 

I  asked  what  hopes  he  had  of  bringing  the  ne- 
gotiations with  the  House  of  Commons  to  a  suc- 
cessful issue. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "if  our  work  here  con- 
tinues to  be  as  successful  as  it  has  been,  I  think 


26  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

it  quite  possible  that  in  three  years  all  the  im- 
portant affairs  of  the  nation  will  be  voiced  here. ' ' 

I  had  a  little  shiver.  I  do  not  know  why — a 
mere  respect  for  the  proper  use  of  nouns  and 
verbs  will  scarcely  account  for  it — but  the  mo- 
ment any  writer  or  speaker  begins  to  "voice" 
this  matter  or  the  other,  I  get  a  little  cold  shiver. 
The  fact  is,  I  cannot  help  suspecting  him — and 
it  may  be  a  very  cruel  and  unjust  suspicion  on 
my  part — but  I  cannot  help  suspecting  him  of 
being  a  member  of  the  National  Liberal  Club. 

My  eyes  wandered  round  the  building. 

' '  Have  you  any  suggestions  to  make  ? "  he  said. 

"No,  no,"  I  replied.  "Those  are  magnificent 
statues. ' ' 

"Aren't  they?"  he  cordially  acquiesced. 
' '  Don 't  you  admire  their  expressions  and  poses  ? ' ' 

I  said  that  I  did,  and  that  I  was  profoundly  im- 
pressed by  the  superbly  flamboyant  and  confident 
attitude  of  the  Polyfadistic  Impossiblist  in  the 
centre. 

"It  is  his  invariable  attitude,"  said  the  Direc- 
tor.   ' '  He  never  changes  it  for  a  single  moment. ' ' 

I  said  that  it  must  be  a  little  trying  and  tiring 
sometimes. 

"Not  to  himself,"  the  Director  answered. 

I  looked  at  them  again. 

"Westminster  Abbey  has  a  remarkable  collec- 
tion of  statues, ' '  I  said ;  ' '  but  it  contains  nothing 
approaching  to  these. ' ' 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  27 

He  agreed  with  me  and  seemed  to  be  pleased. 
My  eyes  wandered  again  round  the  building. 

"You  were  going  to  make  some  observation," 
he  prompted. 

And  seeing  that  I  hesitated,  he  added  encour- 
agingly: "Speak  quite  openly.  Remember  this 
is  the  Theatre  of  Ideas." 

"Well,  of  course  they  are  a  splendid  group," 
I  hazarded,  "but  don't  you  think  the  place  needs 
a  little  more  solid  useful  furniture  ? ' ' 

He  said  he  thought  not,  and  that  in  his  opinion 
the  statue  of  the  Polyfadistic  Impossiblist  alone 
was  quite  enough  to  furnish  a  Theatre  of  Ideas. 

"The  place  would  look  dismally  empty  without 
him,"  I  remarked. 

At  that  moment  a  rocket  fizzed  up  and  all  the 
lights  suddenly  jetted  out  in  a  blinding  flash,  and 
as  suddenly  went  down  again.  All  the  spectators, 
like  myself,  gave  a  little  startled  jump. 

"What  do  you  think  of  our  system  of  light- 
ing?" he  inquired. 

"I  should  have  supposed  that  in  a  Theatre  of 
Ideas,"  I  replied,  "you  would  have  taken  care  to 
have  a  steady  luminous  glow. ' ' 

"Oh no!  Oh  no!  Oh  no !"  he  demurred.  "We 
find  it  much  more  effective  to  keep  the  place 
dimly  lighted,  and  then  suddenly  to  blaze  out  in 
an  unexpected  flash,  with  a  rocket  or  two.  It's 
far  more  dazzling  to  our  spectators.  It  enables 
them  to  catch  glimpses  of  more  things  than  are 


28  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

dreamed  of  in  Heaven  and  Earth.  A  constant 
equable  radiance  of  light  would  scarcely  be  no- 
ticed, and  would  tend  to  show  things  as  they 
really  are.  It  would  be  in  no  way  superior  to 
ordinary  sunlight." 

"That's  quite  true,"  I  concurred.  "I  see  now 
that  your  system  of  lighting  is  admirably  suited 
to  the  Theatre  of  Ideas." 

The  rider  was  still  hacking  backward  and  for- 
ward, and  making  thrusts  at  his  enemy. 

"May  I  ask  what  that  gentleman  is  hacking 
at?"  I  asked. 

"  I  'm  not  quite  sure, ' '  he  answered  ;  "  I  believe 
it  is  either  private  property  or  marriage.  I'll 
inquire." 

He  went  up  to  an  attendant  and  questioned 
him. 

On  his  return  he  said :  "I  find  it's  vaccination 
we  are  attacking  to-day.  Can  I  give  you  any 
more  information?" 

"Well,  I  do  not  wish  to  seem  critical,"  I  re- 
plied; "but  isn't  it  a  pity  that  you  don't  have 
real  horses?" 

"Oh  we  do,  occasionally,"  he  said.  "And  we 
have  one  or  two  riders  who  can  almost  manage 
them.  "We  started  with  the  intention  of  having 
none  but  real  horses,  but  we  met  with  constant 
accidents  and  tumbles.  The  spectators  got 
alarmed.  Our  difficulty  was  to  find  a  supply  of 
practised  riders.     We  had  guaranteed  our  sub- 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  29 

seribers  a  constant  exhibition  of  feats  of  daring 
horsemanship.  We  had  to  keep  faith  with  them. 
You  wouldn't  have  us  disappoint  the  crowd  of 
advanced  and  intelligent  persons  who  have  sup- 
ported us  all  through  ? ' ' 

"No,  indeed,"  I  cordially  responded. 

"So  we  have  gradually  substituted  horses  of 
the  type  you  see  here." 

' '  And  haven 't  your  audiences  any  suspicion  ? ' ' 
I  asked,  "that  they  are  not  real  horses?" 

"Very  few  of  them  can  distinguish  between 
the  two  types,"  he  replied.  "The  great  majority 
of  our  subscribers,  especially  our  lady  supporters, 
prefer  the  rocking  horses,  as  they  are  less  dan- 
gerous and  troublesome  animals  to  handle. 
Would  you  like  to  see  where  we  manufacture 
them?" 

"I  should,  very  much,"  was  my  reply. 

He  took  me  into  the  workshop  of  the  building, 
and  showed  me  several  horses  in  various  stages  of 
being  manufactured.  Three  or  four  of  them  were 
finished,  and  were  placed  near  the  centre  of  the 
room.  Several  young  horsemen  were  busily  try- 
ing to  throw  a  lasso  over  their  heads,  and  when 
one  of  them  succeeded,  a  murmur  of  admiration 
went  round  the  workshop. 

On  the  floor,  approaching  completion,  was  a 
huge  dappled-gray  mare  of  the  massive  build 
and  proportions  of  a  cart-horse,  and  rather  larger 
than  life-size. 


30  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

"That  seems  to  be  a  useful  animal,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"Yes,  we  expect  him  to  be  a  great  favourite 
with  our  audiences. ' ' 

" Him ? "  I  exclaimed.    "It's  a  mare ! ' ' 

"We  avoid  all  sex  distinctions  in  the  Theatre 
of  Ideas.  We  find  they  are  very  objectionable 
and  humiliating  to  the  majority  of  our  lady  sub- 
scribers. ' ' 

I  had  a  slight  buzzing  in  my  ears,  and  the 
building  began  to  go  round  slowly. 

"She — a — he  looks  to  be  capable  of  great  ex- 
ertion without  fatigue,"  I  observed. 

"We  rarely  find  that  our  horses  are  fatigued," 
he  said.  "And  we  ride  them  constantly  day  and 
night.  But  unfortunately,  nearly  all  our  riders 
suffer  from  great  shortness  of  breath  after  they 
have  been  riding  a  few  months." 

We  strolled  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  ani- 
mal. A  workman  was  nailing  on  its  mane  with 
large,  resplendent  burnished  nails.  The  Director 
told  me  that  the  heads  of  the  nails  were  of  solid 
gold,  so  determined  were  they  to  have  great  rich- 
ness of  detail,  and  not  to  scamp  anything. 
Another  workman  was  engaged  in  painting 
"BUCEPH"  on  its — her — his  hind-quarters. 

"I  like  the  names  you  give  your  horses,"  I 
said,  wishing  to  praise  where  praise  was  due. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "it  lends  a  touch  of  poetry 
and  imagination  to  the  whole  scheme.     There's 


,THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  31 

no  reason  that  a  Theatre  of  Ideas  should  be  desti- 
tute of  poetry  and  imagination. ' ' 

"None  whatever,"  I  heartily  assented. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  workshop  he  proposed 
to  show  me  over  the  library.  I  expressed  my 
pleasure,  and  he  led  me  across  the  building.  We 
were  stopped  by  one  of  the  journalists,  who  came 
up  to  him  with  a  bundle  of  notes  that  he  had  just 
written.  I  noticed  that  the  journalist  ducked  as 
he  passed  the  flamboyant  figure  of  the  Polyfadis- 
tic  Impossiblist,  and  showed  evident  symptoms  of 
terror.  The  Director  explained  that  some  time 
before,  a  group  of  journalists  had  been  discuss- 
ing the  incessantly  rampant  attitude  of  the  figure, 
when  it  had  suddenly  tilted  over  and  fallen  upon 
them.  Two  of  them  had  been  in  the  hospital  for 
paralysis  ever  since,  and  a  third  was  being  cared 
for  in  a  home  for  the  feeble-minded. 

We  crossed  the  building  and  entered  the  li- 
brary, which  was  a  large  and  bare  room,  and, 
like  the  main  building,  was  very  dimly  lighted. 

To  my  surprise  all  the  shelves  were  filled  with 
books  of  a  uniform  height,  bound  in  thin  blue 
paper. 

"We  have  perhaps  the  most  select,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  most  useful  and  inspiring  library 
in  the  world,"  said  the  Director.  He  took  down 
a  volume  and  handed  it  to  me.  It  was  a  Parlia- 
mentary Blue  Book,  reporting  an  ingenious  in- 
vention to  carry  urban  drainage  through  the  air 


32  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

by  means  of  aeroplanes,  thus  avoiding  the  present 
pollution  of  the  soil. 

"Are  they  all  Parliamentary  Blue  Books?"  I 
inquired,  looking  at  the  shelves. 

"We  admit  nothing  else,"  he  replied.  "Where 
could  you  find  so  many  Ideas  packed  in  a  form  so 
convenient  for  our  purpose?" 

He  restored  the  book  to  its  shelf,  and  said  a 
few  words  of  encouragement  to  a  pale  young 
student  who  was  passionately  absorbed  in  a  large, 
thick  blue  volume.  From  their  conversation  I 
learned  that  the  student  was  busy  with  the  re- 
port of  a  Committee,  who  had  been  sitting  to  con- 
sider the  abolition  of  the  middle  and  upper 
classes,  by  forcing  every  one  whose  income  ex- 
ceeded £400  a  year  to  wear  an  anti-oxygenic 
respirator,  which  would  painlessly  stifle  the 
wearer  in  about  twenty-five  minutes. 

The  Director  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  this 
proposal.  I  replied  that  it  seemed  to  me  alto- 
gether too  mild  a  way  of  dealing  with  these  male- 
factors; and  that  I  feared  that  many  of  them 
would  be  crafty  enough  to  escape  by  secreting 
oxygen,  or  by  taking  in  air  when  nobody  was 
looking.  He  said  that  they  had  foreseen  this 
possibility,  and  that,  to  provide  against  it,  the 
State  would  appoint  a  Special  Commissioner  to  at- 
tend every  individual  member  of  the  middle  and 
upper  classes,  in  order  to  see  that  the  law  was  not 
evaded.    This  simple  plan,  while  it  would  extir- 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  33 

pate  the  noxious  middle  and  upper  classes,  would 
also  find  easy  remunerative  occupation  for  the 
unemployed.  With  this  end  in  view,  it  was  pro- 
posed to  fix  the  salary  of  each  Special  Commis- 
sioner at  a  thousand  pounds  a  year.  I  suggested 
that  it  would  be  better  to  bleed  each  criminal  to 
death  by  some  slow  and  lingering  process;  this 
would  more  clearly  show  our  abhorrence  of  the 
crime,  and  at  the  same  time  it  would  be  more  eco- 
nomical. He  replied  that  we  need  not  think  of 
the  economical  aspect  of  the  question,  as  the  State 
could  always  be  drawn  upon  for  a  great  National 
Necessity  like  this.  I  agreed  that  so  long  as  our 
end  was  attained,  it  scarcely  mattered  by  what 
means  we  attained  it;  but  that,  for  my  part,  I 
thought  drastic  and  vindictive  methods  were  ur- 
gently required,  or  we  should  still  find  that  some- 
body would  contrive  to  be  better  off  than  some- 
body else.     The  subject  then  dropped. 

' '  They  appear  to  be  terribly  in  earnest, ' '  I  said, 
glancing  at  the  rows  of  students  seated  along  the 
tables,  and  all  profoundly  engaged  in  kindred 
tasks. 

"We  are  all  terribly  in  earnest  in  the  Theatre 
of  Ideas,"  the  Director  answered.  I  observed 
that  as  soon  as  a  student  had  mastered  a  page  of 
his  Blue  Book  he  tore  it  off,  and  placed  it  care- 
fully in  a  basket  beside  him.  At  intervals  an 
attendant  came  round,  collected  all  the  pages,  and 


34  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

took  them  off  at  a  side  door.  I  asked  the  Director 
what  was  done  with  the  pages  so  collected. 

"They  are  placed  in  a  machine  which  tears 
them  into  pieces  about  an  inch  square,"  he  re- 
plied. "These  are  all  emptied  into  a  large  tub 
and  mixed  with  equal  quantities  of  bran  and 
chaff.  Sufficient  water  is  added  to  make  the  vari- 
ous elements  soluble.  Carefully  calculated  doses 
of  calomel  and  senna  are  stirred  into  the  mass 
until  they  thoroughly  permeate  it.  It  is  then 
packed  in  hermetically  sealed  tins  and  placed  in 
a  refrigerator,  to  prevent  contamination  by  any 
outside  germs.  After  a  week  in  the  refrigerator 
it  is  ready  for  consumption." 

' '  Consumption  by  whom  ? "  I  asked. 

"By  the  entire  staff  of  the  institution,  except 
the  attendants,  porters,  and  messengers,"  he  re- 
plied. ' '  After  a  number  of  experiments,  we  have 
found  that  it  is  the  only  diet  which  adequately 
stimulates  and  regulates  our  faculties,  so  as  to 
render  them  fit  to  deal  with  the  complicated  ques- 
tions that  hourly  present  themselves  in  the  The- 
atre of  Ideas." 

As  we  reentered  the  main  hall  I  noticed  with 
some  alarm  that  the  buzzing  in  my  ears  had  in- 
creased, and  that  the  building  was  quickening  its 
rotatory  movement.  I  had  to  steady  myself 
against  the  door-post  for  a  moment. 

' '  Ah !  you  have  a  curious  sense  of  mental  and 
spiritual  exhilaration?"  the  Director  cheerily  re- 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  35 

marked,  noticing  that  my  movements  were  be- 
coming a  little  uncertain. 

"I  can't  say  that  I  have,"  I  answered.  "The 
fact  is,  I  have  a  fearful  buzzing  in  my  ears. ' ' 

He  seemed  to  be  pleased  at  this. 

"Any  feeling  of  vertigo?"  he  cordially  in- 
quired. 

"Yes,  I  feel  rather  dizzy,"  I  replied.  He 
nodded  approvingly. 

"Perhaps  some  slight  premonition  of  nausea, 
as  in  the  first  stage  of  seasickness  1 "  he  suggested. 

"Yes — something  like  that,"  I  confessed. 

He  nodded  still  more  approvingly. 

"That  is  what  we  call  mental  and  spiritual 
exhilaration  in  the  Theatre  of  Ideas,"  he  said. 
"These  are  all  welcome  and  encouraging  signs 
that  the  place  is  exercising  its  benign  influence 
on  you.  It  casts  the  same  spell  upon  nearly  all 
who  enter  its  portals.  The  mere  name,  'Theatre 
of  Ideas'  has  been  known  to  cause  a  species  of 
intellectual  intoxication.    How  do  you  feel  now  ? ' ' 

I  said  I  should  like  to  sit  down.  He  conducted 
me  to  a  seat  against  the  side  wall. 

"It's  the  inrush  of  Ideas  upon  an  unprepared 
mind,"  he  explained. 

I  said  I  thought  it  must  be. 

"It  generally  happens  so  upon  the  first  visit. 
But  come  often  enough,  and  you'll  find  that  all 
your  movements  and  perceptions  will  gradually 


36  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

adapt  themselves  to  the  conditions  which  we  have 
established. ' ' 

Just  then  a  man  who  had  been  earnestly  watch- 
ing the  swaying  figure  of  Pegasus,  suddenly  tried 
to  stand  on  his  head.  He  was  not  very  success- 
ful, but  he  persevered  and  made  continued  at- 
tempts. The  spectators  cheered  and  encouraged 
him,  and  another  man,  who  had  watched  his  ef- 
forts approvingly,  made  a  vigorous  dive  at  the 
floor,  and  attempted  to  balance  himself  upright 
as  soon  as  his  head  touched  the  ground.  In  a 
few  minutes  a  dozen  men  were  frantically  imi- 
tating the  feat.  So  infectious  is  the  enthusiasm 
for  Ideas.  None  of  them  succeeded  in  keeping  his 
legs  in  the  air  for  longer  than  a  bare  second  or 
so,  until  at  length  one  of  them,  taking  advantage 
of  the  angle  formed  by  my  seat  and  the  wall 
against  which  it  was  backed,  managed,  after  im- 
mense exertion,  to  prop  himself  there,  with  his 
feet  swaying  dangerously  over  my  head.  He  sus- 
tained himself  in  that  position  for  a  considerable 
time,  giving  me  an  occasional  involuntary  kick, 
for  which  he  apologized,  explaining  that  it  was 
impossible  for  a  man  standing  on  his  head  to 
exercise  a  steady  control  over  his  actions.  This 
seemed  to  be  so  reasonable  that  I  readily  ac- 
cepted his  apologies.  I  congratulated  him  upon 
having  been  able  to  carry  his  Idea  into  practice, 
whereas  most  of  the  possessors  of  Ideas  are  con- 
tent with  merely  talking  or  writing  about  them. 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  37 

He  was  so  elated  by  his  success  that  he  did  not 
seem  to  feel  the  increasing  pain  and  inconve- 
nience of  his  posture.  Indeed,  he  invited  me  to 
take  up  a  similar  position  on  the  other  side  of 
my  seat,  where  a  corresponding  advantageous 
angle  was  formed  by  its  junction  with  the  wall. 
I  declined,  and  asked  him  what  was  to  be  gained 
by  standing  on  one's  head? 

' '  It  gives  you  an  entirely  new  view  of  things, ' ' 
he  said,  between  the  gasps  and  breaks  which  his 
position  enforced  upon  him.  And  with  great  dis- 
comfort, and  at  some  risk  of  breaking  his  neck, 
he  went  on  to  argue  that  men  who  habitually 
walked  upon  their  legs  were  bound  to  see  every- 
thing in  its  ordinary  conventional  aspect,  and  to 
regulate  their  actions  accordingly.  This  was  un- 
answerable, and  I  did  not  attempt  a  reply. 

He  raised  himself  a  little  on  the  palms  of  his 
hands,  and  shifted  his  head  so  as  to  get  a  better 
outlook  upon  the  row  of  statues  on  the  pedestals. 

"How  do  they  appear  to  you  from  that  point 
of  view  ? ' '  asked  the  Director,  who  had  encourag- 
ingly and  sympathetically  watched  his  proceed- 
ings. 

"Almost  sublime,"  he  replied.  "When  you 
stand  on  your  legs  and  look  at  them,  they  do  not 
seem  to  be  much  more  than  human  beings,  but 
when  you  see  them  from  this  point  of  vantage 
they  enlarge  themselves  till  they — " 

He  stopped  from  the  mere  physical  difficulty 


38  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

of  launching  a  hyperbole  in  that  position.  The 
Director  screwed  his  head  round  and  down,  first 
to  one  side  and  then  to  another,  and  tried  to  get 
a  view  of  the  statues  as  they  appeared  to  the  man 
whose  head  was  on  the  floor. 

"They  certainly  seem  to  gain  in  importance 
when  you  look  at  them  sideways,"  said  the  Di- 
rector. 

The  man  on  the  floor  insisted  that  they  gained 
even  more  in  importance  when  you  looked  at 
them  topsy-turvy,  and  begged  the  Director  to 
have  the  statues  rearranged  on  that  formula. 
The  Director  promised  to  make  some  experiments 
with  the  statues,  and  to  arrange  them  in  different 
ways,  until  he  discovered  what  angle  of  inclina- 
tion would  best  suit  the  idiosyncrasy  of  each 
member  of  the  group. 

I  have  since  learned  that  the  Director  was  as 
good  as  his  word,  for  last  week  I  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  questioning  a  friend  who  had  visited 
the  Theatre  of  Ideas  only  the  day  before.  From 
what  he  told  me,  it  appeared  that  the  Director 
had  taken  infinite  trouble  to  rearrange  the  stat- 
ues in  a  manner  that  would  show  them  to  the 
best  advantage,  and  that  would  also  be  most 
agreeable  to  the  originals.  A  small  committee 
had  waited  upon  the  Polyfadistic  Impossiblist  and 
had  asked  him  how  he  would  like  his  statue  to  be 
placed.  He  had  replied  that  any  man  must  be  a 
myopic  lunatic  if  he  did  not  know  that  all  statues 


.THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  39 

looked  best  when  they  stood  upside  down,  and 
that  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  National  disgrace 
and  an  insult  to  sculpture  that  all  our  public 
statues  were  still  allowed  to  remain  in  an  up- 
right position.  He  added  that  nothing  could 
reconcile  him  to  the  exhibition  of  his  statue  with 
its  head  upward,  except  a  general  reversal  of  all 
other  statues.  If  such  a  reversal  took  place,  he 
should  immediately  change  his  views,  and  insist 
that  his  statue  should  be  placed  on  its  feet.  He 
then  expressed  himself  very  strongly  upon  vivi- 
section, and  the  Committee  withdrew,  much  im- 
pressed. 

All  this  my  friend  told'  me  he  had  elicited  from 
the  same  amiable  Director  who  had  previously 
shown  me  round.  In  reply  to  my  further  ques- 
tions, my  friend  said  that  upon  his  recent  visit 
the  Polyfaclistic  Impossiblist  had,  according  to 
his  wishes,  been  placed  in  an  exactly  vertical  posi- 
tion with  his  feet  upward ;  and  that  this  attitude 
insured  him  universal  respect  and  admiration. 
The  other  statues  were  tentatively  on  their  feet, 
but  at  various  slants;  one  of  them  was  not  more 
than  twenty-five  degrees  from  the  perpendicular. 
I  inquired  of  my  friend  what  had  become  of  the 
small  bust  in  the  background.  He  could  not  re- 
member, but  he  thought  it  was  still  in  an  upright 
position.  This  was  what  I  learned  only  a  week 
ago. 

To  return  to  my  own  visit  to  the  Theatre  of 


40  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

Ideas.  After  some  misadventures,  the  man  on 
his  head  balanced  himself  precariously  against 
my  seat  and  the  wall.  He  claimed  that  this  atti- 
tude gave  him  an  astounding  lucidity  of  mind, 
and  revealed  to  him  many  things  that  escape  the 
notice  of  those  who  all  their  lives  are  content  to 
narrow  their  outlook,  and  walk  about  this  won- 
derful world  upon  their  feet. 

I  asked  him  if  he  did  not  find  the  posture  very 
painful  and  uncomfortable.  He  said  that  he  did, 
but  that  martyrs  to  Ideas  must  expect  to  put  up 
with  hardships.  He  again  pressed  me  to  take  up 
a  similar  position,  but  I  refused  very  emphati- 
cally. He  then  called  me  a  Trilobite.  With  that 
our  conversation  ended.  A  Trilobite,  I  afterward 
learned,  is  a  crab-like  creature  which  existed  in 
the  Paleozoic  Period,  and  has  been  extinct  since 
the  close  of  the  Carboniferous. 

Meantime  the  other  anti-pedestrians  had  been 
endeavouring  to  sustain  the  same  attitude,  but 
without  much  success.  They  seemed,  however, 
to  be  undaunted  by  failure,  for  every  now  and 
then  I  caught  sight  of  a  pair  of  boots  waggling 
uncertainly  for  a  moment  between  the  shoulders 
of  the  spectators.  A  lady  had  her  nose  and  cheek 
severely  bruised  by  a  sudden  collision  with  the 
hob-nailed  toe  of  one  of  these  enthusiasts.  The 
lady  indignantly  protested.  The  man  looked  up 
at  her  from  the  ground  and  tried  to  explain,  but 
before  he  could  get  the  words  out,  his  other  boot 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  41 

had  violently  descended  and  caught  her  a  severe 
blow  in  the  eye.  She  was  very  angry  and  left 
the  building.  So  resentful  are  ordinary  persons 
of  the  impact  of  Ideas ;  so  unwilling  to  endure  the 
slightest  inconvenience  from  their  operation. 

And  now  an  incident  occurred  of  the  greatest 
significance,  as  showing  the  penetrating  quick- 
ness of  woman 's  intellect,  and  the  ready  superior- 
ity of  her  reasoning  faculties.  Whatever  little 
doubt  I  may  have  previously  had  on  this  matter, 
I  have  had  none  since ;  and  I  am  glad  to  pay  this 
full  and  handsome  tribute  of  submission.  A  very 
beautiful  and  quietly  dressed  woman  with  a  well- 
bred  air  and  a  gentle,  attractive  mien,  had  been 
watching  with  great  interest  the  efforts  of  the 
men  to  stand  upon  their  heads.  With  startling 
eagerness,  she  suddenly  tucked  up  her  skirts  to 
her  knees,  bent  down  her  head,  and  thrust  it  be- 
tween her  calves,  as  through  a  horse  collar.  This 
gave  her  a  splendid  opportunity  of  seeing  things 
upside  down,  without  the  pain  and  trouble  of 
standing  upon  her  head.  A  very  curious  and  un- 
expected result  followed  from  her  action.  The 
moment  she  saw  things  upside  down,  she  began 
to  squeal  out  incoherently  for  her  rights. 

I  was  watching  her  with  extravagant  admira- 
tion, when  the  Director  touched  me  in  a  kindly 
way  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  that  he  had  many 
more  interesting  things  to  show  me.  I  rose  cau- 
tiously, but  found  that  the  whole  building  was 


42  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

now  revolving  so  quickly  that  it  would  be  inad- 
visable for  me  to  move.  The  buzzing  in  the  ears 
was  also  increasing  in  an  alarming  way. 

' '  Come  along, ' '  he  said  in  a  tone  of  gentle  com- 
mand. "You  mustn't  leave  without  seeing  our 
Pithecoidic  Academy." 

I  made  a  strong  effort  and  followed  him  across 
the  main  hall.  I  was  glad,  however,  to  lean  on 
the  railings  of  an  alley  that  ran  along  the  further 
side  of  the  building.  It  had  much  the  same  shape 
and  proportions  as  a  bowling  alley;  the  only 
marked  difference  being  that  the  space  where  the 
ninepins  are  placed  was  occupied  by  a  solidly 
built  brick  wall,  about  ten  feet  high  and  quite 
four  feet  thick.  A  number  of  young  men  were 
partially  stripping  themselves  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  alley.  As  I  halted  to  watch  their  proceedings 
the  Director  rejoined  me. 

"These  are  our  stalwarts,"  he  said.  "This  is 
the  most  severe  discipline  our  subscribers  are 
called  upon  to  undergo,  and  puts  the  greatest 
strain  on  their  allegiance  to  Ideas." 

Each  young  man,  when  he  had  divested  himself 
of  his  outer  garments,  appeared  in  a  brilliant  blue 
and  white  athletic  costume.  He  then  went  up  to  a 
table,  on  which  were  lying  a  great  number  of  in- 
dia-rubber skull  caps,  made  to  fit  over  the  entire 
cranium,  and  to  cover  completely  the  eyes  and 
ears.  I  handled  some  of  these  skull  caps,  and 
found  that  they  were  of  varying  thicknesses,  from 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  43 

a  mere  skin  to  a  hard  two-inch  coating  of  rubber. 
Each  young  stalwart  fitted  himself  with  a  cap, 
and  carefully  pulled  it  over  his  eyes  and  ears, 
so  that  he  was  able  to  concentrate  himself  on  his 
mission  without  the  risk  of  distraction.  He 
then  stationed  himself  at  the  starting  post, 
waved  his  arms  blindly  in  the  air,  and  burst  into 
the  triumphant  notes  of  a  fiery  tune,  which 
seemed  to  be  a  reminiscent  compound  of  the 
"Marseillaise"  and  "Onward,  Christian  Sol- 
diers." After  a  pause  at  the  end  of  the  tune,  he 
shouted  "Victory"  three  times,  tightened  his 
muscles,  bent  his  head  forward,  rushed  up  the 
alley  at  his  fiercest  speed,  and  butted  furiously 
into  the  brick  wall  at  the  end.  The  result  of  this 
was  generally  to  stun  him  for  a  considerable 
time,  varying  from  a  few  minutes  to  half  an 
hour,  according  to  the  thickness  of  his  skull,  the 
protection  he  received  from  his  cap,  and  the  prac- 
tice and  skill  with  which  he  executed  the  man- 
oeuvre. As  soon  as  he  lay  stunned  upon  the 
floor,  two  attendants  came,  picked  him  up,  and 
carried  him  into  an  adjoining  dressing-room, 
where  they  took  off  his  skull  cap,  bathed  his  head, 
and  administered  restoratives.  When  he  had 
sufficient^  recovered,  he  walked  down  the  alley 
to  the  cheers  of  the  spectators;  put  on  his  skull 
cap,  and  again  stationed  himself  at  the  starting 
post.  After  the  song  and  shouts  of  "Victory," 
he  once  more  addressed  himself  to  the  brick  wall. 


44  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

"A  very  severe  discipline,"  said  the  Director, 
as  one  young  stalwart  was  carried  into  the  dress- 
ing-room for  the  fifth  time. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  I  assented.  "What  is  the  ob- 
ject of  it?" 

The  Director  replied  that  many  of  these  young 
men  were  destined  to  be  politicians,  and  that  this 
training  fitted  them  to  meet  in  an  unconquer- 
able spirit  the  obstacles  they  were  likely  to  en- 
counter in  a  political  career.  He  said  that  none 
but  the  stoutest  hearts  and  thickest  skulls  could 
survive  it ;  and  that  their  prize  pupil  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  present  government,  who  often  came 
and  practised  for  an  hour  or  two  in  their  alley 
before  introducing  a  bill  into  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. He  deplored,  however,  the  waning  cour- 
age of  the  present  generation  of  stalwarts.  Few 
of  them,  he  said,  took  more  than  three  turns  at 
the  brick  wall  in  any  one  day ;  while  only  one  out 
of  ten  persevered  through  the  entire  course  of 
six  years;  most  of  them,  indeed,  dropping  out  of 
the  ranks  at  the  end  of  two  or  three  years.  I 
said  that  a  three  years'  course  would  satisfy  all 
my  own  aspirations  to  distinguish  myself  in  that 
way. 

There  came  up  to  us  a  very  old  man  in  black 
clothes,  with  silver  hair  that  fell  carelessly  over 
a  head  that  was  so  battered  and  pushed  out  of 
shape  in  all  directions,  that  it  looked  like  a  gro- 
tesque mass  of  pulp,  and  was  only  recognizable 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  45 

as  a  head  from  the  position  it  occupied  on  the  top 
of  his  shoulders.  The  Director  received  him  with 
the  respect  due  to  honourable  old  age. 

"May  I  take  my  usual  turn?"  the  old  gentle- 
man anxiously  inquired,  after  greetings  had  been 
exchanged . 

"By  all  means,"  replied  the  amiable  Director; 
and  he  arranged  that  the  group  of  waiting  young 
stalwarts  should  stand  aside,  and  leave  the  alley 
free  for  the  exploits  of  the  old  gentleman.  With 
trembling  hands  the  old  man  unstripped  him- 
self, and  soon  appeared  in  a  gorgeous  blue  and 
white  gladiatorial  dress,  that  showed  strangely 
enough  under  the  silver  hair  and  the  battered,  mis- 
shapen cranium.  The  Director  whispered  me  that 
the  plucky  old  fellow's  head  had  taken  its  pres- 
ent contour  as  the  result  of  sixty-five  years' 
practice  at  a  brick  wall,  generally  the  one  at  the 
bottom  of  his  back  garden.  But  his  own  brick 
wall  having  a  mere  seven-inch  thickness,  they 
allowed  him  as  a  courtesy  to  fortify  himself  by 
taking  an  occasional  turn  at  the  more  impreg- 
nable obstruction  at  the  end  of  the  alley. 

The  old  man  sang  the  hymn  in  a  quavering 
voice  but  with  great  spirit,  and  was  shouting 
"Victory,"  when  I  was  moved  to  a  protest,  and 
earnestly  begged  him  to  desist  from  knocking  his 
head  still  further  out  of  shape.  The  Director 
hushed  me  down,  and  taking  me  aside,  expostu- 
lated with  me. 


46  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

"He  doesn't  know  his  head  is  out  of  shape," 
the  Director  whispered.  "Better  leave  him  in 
ignorance. ' ' 

"But,"  I  protested,  "he'll  have  a  serious  con- 
cussion.   Look !    He  isn  't  putting  on  a  skull  cap. ' ' 

The  Director  again  tried  to  quiet  me  by  ex- 
plaining that  the  old  gentleman  was  a  very  emi- 
nent theologian,  and  therefore  whatever  injuries 
he  received,  he  was  quite  incapable  of  feeling 
them.  He  added  that  this  happy  imperviousness 
to  injury,  which  all  theologians  possess,  enables 
them  to  pursue  this  severe  exercise  with  their 
skulls  quite  unprotected.  He  implored  me  to 
leave  the  old  gentleman  alone,  and  to  accompany 
him  to  the  Pithecoidic  Academy,  which  he  was 
sure  would  interest  me.  I  learned  afterward  that 
the  old  gentleman  had  taken  the  highest  degrees 
in  Divinity  in  all  the  European  universities,  and 
had  a  reputation  for  scholarship  that  extended 
over  three  continents. 

As  I  cautiously  followed  the  Director  with  an 
increasing  unsteadiness  of  gait,  I  asked  him  for 
some  information  as  to  the  nature  and  aims  of 
this  Pithecoidic  Academy.  He  said  that  by  the 
mere  accidents  of  development  and  environment, 
the  anthropoid  apes  had  been  deprived  of  their 
rightful  status  of  humanity,  with  the  attendant 
privilege  of  voting.  Had  it  not  been  for  this 
cruel  caprice  of  Nature,  the  younger  members  of 
the  foremost  Simian  families  would  now  be  en- 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  47 

joying  the  advantages  of  Popular  Education,  and 
many  of  the  elder  members  would  be  occupying 
responsible  positions  to  which  they  were  justly 
entitled,  and  for  which  they  were  manifestly 
qualified — such  as  leading  popular  processions, 
and  representing  their  fellow  creatures  in  Par- 
liament. They  were  trying,  he  informed  me,  in 
their  Pithecoidic  Academy  to  remedy  the  injustice 
and  hardships  which  the  Simian  races  had  en- 
dured for  countless  generations,  by  giving  the 
younger  members  of  the  various  groups  a  sound 
knowledge  of  the  higher  mathematics. 

I  asked  him  what  results  he  expected  to  attain 
from  this  curriculum.  He  replied  that  they 
needed  skilled  carpenters  to  make  their  rocking- 
horses,  and  that  the  best  preparation  for  the 
trade  of  a  practical  carpenter  was  a  thorough 
acquaintance  with  the  laws  of  Algebra.  He  con- 
fessed, however,  that  they  had  only  been  partially 
successful,  for  Nature  again  seemed  to  take  a 
malicious  delight  in  interposing  mental  barriers 
and  limitations  which  prevented  the  young  an- 
thropoids from  mastering  the  Calculus  of  Equiva- 
lent Statements.  I  said  that  in  this  respect  their 
proteges  were  in  no  wise  behind  the  general  run 
of  educated  mankind.  I  added  that,  in  my  opin- 
ion, the  Calculus  of  Permutable  Abstractions  of- 
fered a  better  means  of  training  a  carpenter  or 
handicraftsman  than  the  Calculus  of  Equivalent 
Statements.     He   agreed    that   as  their  scholars 


48  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

could  not  understand  the  Calculus  of  Equivalent 
Statements,  it  would  be  wise  to  start  them  upon 
something  more  abstruse  and  difficult,  so  as  to 
draw  out  their  faculties.  With  this  end  in  view, 
the  Directorate  had  under  consideration  the  Cal- 
culus of  Unconditioned  Possibilities.  He  asked 
my  opinion  of  this  Calculus  as  an  instrument  of 
Popular  Education.  I  said  that  in  the  present 
temper  and  condition  of  the  people  it  appeared  to 
be  even  more  suitable  than  the  Calculus  of  Per- 
mutable  Abstractions.* 

"Yes,"  he  pursued,  "I  cannot  imagine  a  bet- 
ter way  to  prepare  our  masses  for  the  practical 
duties  and  business  of  life  than  to  ground  them 
thoroughly  in  the  Calculus  of  Unconditioned  Pos- 
sibilities. " 

I  agreed  that  it  would  fit  them  for  every  emer- 
gency and  contingency.  I  further  pointed  out 
that  it  would  enable  them  to  deal  with  our  con- 
stantly recurring  political  crises. 

"That  is  what  we  feel,"  he  fervently  ex- 
claimed. "And  how  much  better  it  would  be  if 
every  carpenter  in  the  kingdom  were  able  to  cope 
with  a  political  crisis,  than  that  he  should  be  able 
to  make  a  beautiful  chair,  or  a  well-fitting 
drawer. ' ' 

I  said  that  in  this  respect  we  had  nothing  to 
grumble  at,  for  whereas  it  was  getting  increas- 

*  See  letters  on  Popular  Education  in  the  Educational 
Supplement  of  the  London  "Times,"  6  Jan.,  1914. 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  49 

ingly  difficult  to  find  a  table  drawer  that  would 
slide  easily  into  its  place,  the  number  of  unskilled 
workmen  who  were  capable  of  dealing  with  a 
political  crisis  was  rapidly  increasing,  and  would 
shortly  be  commensurate  with  the  entire  popu- 
lation. 

My  remark  seemed  to  stimulate  him  to  action, 
for  he  immediately  declared  that  they  would  set 
all  their  most  backward  pupils  to  work  upon  the 
Calculus  of  Unconditioned  Possibilities  the  very 
next  morning. 

I  applauded  this  resolution,  and  said  that  it 
promised  great  results  at  the  present  time,  when 
already  the  Calculus  of  Unconditioned  Possi- 
bilities was  the  favorite  text-book  of  some  of  our 
leading  statesmen.  It  now  only  remained  for 
the  masses  to  yet  further  assist  our  legislators  in 
drawing  deductions  from  the  same  source,  and 
to  embody  them  in  the  statute  book.  This  done,  I 
said  our  country  would  be  a  very  pleasant  place 
for  all  of  us  to  live  in. 

As  we  finished  this  profitable  conversation,  we 
passed  through  the  doors  of  the  Pithecoidic 
Academy.  Upon  our  entrance  a  great  noise  of 
chattering  prevailed,  which  the  Director  hushed 
down  with  difficulty.  My  attention  was  caught 
by  a  young  chimpanzee  who  was  absorbed  in  the 
contents  of  his  class-book.  I  asked  what  he  was 
studying  so  eagerly,  and  was  told  that  he  was  en- 
gaged upon  the  forty-seventh  proposition  of  the 


50  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

First  Book  of  Euclid,  with  a  view  to  fitting  him- 
self for  carrying  loads  of  bricks  to  the  bricklayers 
of  the  new  annex  to  the  Theatre  of  Ideas.  I  hap- 
pened to  look  over  his  shoulders  and  discovered 
that  he  was  really  devouring  a  story  of  pirates  in 
a  six-penny  magazine,  which  he  had  slipped  be- 
tween the  covers,  of  his  class-book.  I  pointed  this 
out  to  the  Director,  who  observed  that  they  con- 
stantly met  with  similar  discouragements.  "For 
instance,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  curious  fact  that  a 
course  of  classical  history  always  develops  in  a 
young  anthropoid  a  taste  for  Mr.  Tinfoil's  nov- 
els; and  any  increase  of  members  in  our  Latin 
and  Greek  classes  instantly  raises  the  circulation 
of  'Snipbits'  at  the  bookstall  outside."  This 
staggered  me  a  little,  and  I  asked  whether,  for 
the  present,  it  might  not,  after  all,  be  advisable 
to  adapt  our  system  of  education  to  the  mental 
capacities,  and  to  the  future  vocations  of  the 
scholars.  He  replied  that  if  we  trained  our  future 
builders  and  carpenters  in  such  an  antiquated 
fashion,  we  could  expect  nothing  better  from  them 
than  monstrous  abortions  like  Salisbury  and  Lin- 
coln cathedrals,  and  the  hideous  wood  carving  of 
Grinling  Gibbons.  He  further  pointed  out  that 
the  less  their  scholars  learned  and  understood  of 
their  everyday  work,  the  more  highly  developed 
became  their  sense  of  self-esteem.  And  he  held 
that  unless  the  sense  of  self-esteem  was  cultivated 
and  allowed  free  play,  these  young  anthropoids 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  51 

would  never  take  their  places  as  useful  members 
of  a  properly  organized  society. 

At  that  moment  it  flashed  across  me  that  I  had 
an  appointment  with  the  Collector  of  Rates,  with 
whom  I  had  a  dispute  as  to  the  amount  due  from 
me  for  the  purpose  of  National  Education.  I 
mentioned  this  to  the  Director,  and  asked  him  if 
he  could  tell  me  the  hour,  at  the  same  time  mak- 
ing it  a  pretext  for  leaving  the  Pithecoidic  Acad- 
emy, which,  after  the  momentary  hush  the  Di- 
rector had  secured  on  our  entrance,  had  again 
become  a  wild  babel  of  chatter  and  confusion. 

"The  time?  I'll  tell  you,"  he  replied.  "But 
before  you  go,  I  must  take  you  into  our  Sanctuary 
of  Perpetual  Peace." 

I  said  I  was  overdue  to  keep  my  appointment 
with  the  Rate  Collector. 

"But  this  is  our  greatest  achievement — or  will 
be  when  it  is  finished,"  he  continued.  "I  really 
cannot  let  you  leave  the  Theatre  of  Ideas  without 
showing  you  our  arrangements  for  securing  Per- 
petual Peace  all  the  world  over.  I  hope  you  are 
an  advocate  of  Universal  Peace  1 ' ' 

I  answered  most  emphatically  that  I  was.  I 
said  that  a  few  weeks  before  I  had  imprudently 
ventured  upon  a  personal  encounter  with  a  pow- 
erful ruffian  whom  I  had  detected  in  the  act  of 
stealing  my  watch.  The  result  was  that  I  had  re- 
ceived a  ferocious  mauling  at  his  hands,  and  had 
lost  my  watch.    The  affair  had  made  so  deep  an 


52  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

impression  upon  my  mind,  and  upon  my  nose, 
that  I  had  thereupon  resolved  to  be  a  man  of 
peace  for  the  remainder  of  my  life. 

"Come  along  then,"  he  said,  and  helped  my 
uncertain  steps  across  the  hall  to  a  large  open 
door  over  which  was  inscribed,  "SANCTUARY 
OF  PERPETUAL  PEACE." 

On  the  way  he  confided  to  me  that  this  wing  of 
their  institution  was  founded  and  supported  by 
an  anonymous  donor,  who  up  to  the  age  of  sev- 
enty had  led  a  notorious  and  successful  career 
as  bandit  and  pirate  on  an  international  scale. 
Having  amassed  a  huge  fortune  by  this  means, 
he  had  thereupon  seen  the  error  of  his  ways,  and 
being  stricken  by  conscience,  he  had  determined 
to  make  some  atonement.  He  had  therefore  de- 
voted one-tenth  of  all  he  possessed  to  the  promo- 
tion of  universal  peace,  and  a  further  tenth  to 
the  succour  of  orphans  whose  parents  had  died 
from  hydrophobia.  The  Director  told  me  that 
this  aged  philanthropist  had  already  lived  to  see 
the  fulfilment  of  one  half  of  his  benevolent  as- 
pirations; inasmuch  as,  owing  to  his  princely 
gifts,  it  was  now  impossible  to  find  throughout 
the  length  and  breadth  of  Great  Britain  a  single 
orphan  of  any  victim  to  hydrophobia,  who  was 
not  handsomely  and  indeed  luxuriously  provided 
for  to  the  end  of  life.  The  Director  added  that 
if  this  venerable  benefactor  of  his  species  could 
but  live  to  see  the  inauguration  of  an  era  of  uni- 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  53 

versal  peace  and  thus  realize  the  other  half  of 
his  aspirations,  he  would  be  content  to  die  in 
the  blessed  thought  that  he  had  not  lived  in  vain. 

"What  is  his  present  age?"  I  inquired. 

"Eighty-seven,"  the  Director  replied. 

I  said  that  I  devoutly  hoped  his  wishes  would 
be  realized.  I  declared  it  would  be  monstrous 
for  the  nations  of  Europe  to  allow  this  aged 
philanthropist  to  die  unsolaced  by  the  conviction 
that  his  efforts  had  been  crowned  with  success, 
and  that  war  was  henceforth  impossible. 

With  that  we  passed  through  the  portals  of 
the  Sanctuary  of  Perpetual  Peace.  Our  entry 
was  unnoticed  in  the  hubbub  of  high  tongues  and 
violent  gestures  that  was  proceeding  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room.  The  Director  explained  that  at 
present  their  work  in  this  department  was  only 
in  its  third  year,  and  that  constant  disputes  and 
confusions  arose,  owing  to  their  difficulties  in 
settling  the  principles  upon  which  perpetual  uni- 
versal peace  was  to  be  secured  and  maintained. 
Until  these  underlying  principles  were  formu- 
lated and  subscribed  to,  it  was  natural  that  there 
should  be  some  transient  discords  between  the 
Professors  who  were  busily  engaged  in  establish- 
ing them. 

"But,"  the  Director  continued,  "when  once 
our  main  principles  are  formulated,  and  the 
broad  lines  of  our  policy  laid  down,  we  have  only 


54  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

to  get  all  the  politicians  and  the  peoples  to  agree 
to  them,  and  our  task  will  be  accomplished. ' ' 

I  said  that  ought  not  to  be  difficult. 

"Meantime,"  the  Director  pursued  in  a  tone 
of  cheery  confidence,  "a  little  wrangling,  or  even 
a  few  occasional  blows  among  ourselves,  is  a 
very  small  matter,  if  only  the  great  consumma- 
tion of  Universal  Perpetual  Peace  can  be  ob- 
tained." 

I  concurred,  and  added  that  for  my  own  part, 
I  was  a  reasonable  man,  and  would  willingly 
compound  the  matter,  and  take  a  modest  instal- 
ment on  account — say  an  undertaking  that  would 
secure  European  peace  for  the  next  thirty  years. 

The  Director  shook  his  head,  and  said  that  the 
Sanctuary  of  Perpetual  Peace  was  endowed  upon 
the  most  uncompromising  basis;  its  venerable 
founder  having  seen  so  much  of  the  misery  and 
evils  of  bloodshed  during  his  seventy  years  as 
bandit  and  pirate,  that  he  was  quite  resolved  to 
accept  no  solution  of  the  question  short  of  Per- 
petual Peace  all  the  world  over.  To  this  end  he 
had  spared  no  expense  in  endowing  the  Institu- 
tion with  Professorial  Chairs  that  were  filled  by 
men  of  the  highest  attainments  in  Social  Science 
and  Philosophy. 

Our  conversation  had  been  carried  on  with 
great  difficulty,  for  not  only  had  the  hubbub  at 
the  end  of  the  room  increased  in  violence,  but  all 
the  time  a  shattering  din  came  from  a  side  room, 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  55 

as  of  clanging  hammers  beating  on  anvils  in  iron- 
works. Over  the  door  of  this  side  room  was 
sculptured  a  dove  bearing  an  olive  branch,  with 
the  text  underneath,  "Wisdom  is  better  than 
Weapons  of  War." 

Amidst  the  uproar,  the  Director  went  on  to  give 
me  some  information  about  the  learned  Profes- 
sors who  were  the  guiding  spirits  of  the  place. 
He  kindly  raised  his  voice  to  a  shout,  while  I 
formed  an  ear-trumpet  with  one  hand,  and  with 
the  other  clung  to  a  table  to  steady  myself;  for 
all  the  while  the  building  continued  to  roll  round 
at  increasing  speed.  In  this  position,  after  fre- 
quent misunderstandings,  I  managed  to  learn  that 
the  Sanctuary  of  Perpetual  Peace  was  controlled 
by  a  small  committee  of  three,  Professor  Poap, 
Professor  Pugg,  and  Professor  Meake.  The  Pro- 
fessor pointed  out  a  thick-set,  sallow  complex- 
ioned  man  of  fifty,  with  a  massive  forehead, 
scowling  eyes,  heavy  jaws,  and  a  baggy  counte- 
nance as  Professor  Poap. 

Professor  Poap  was  rolling  out  a  succession  of 
ungracious  adjectives  and  epithets,  which  seemed 
to  be  directed  at  a  fierce,  dapper,  red-haired, 
clean  shaven  little  man,  who  was  barking  and 
gesticulating  at  him  across  the  body  of  a  beam- 
ing old  fellow  with  rosy  cheeks,  and  white  woolly 
hair  and  whiskers.  This  latter  I  gathered  was 
Professor  Meake.  He  had  the  features  and  air 
of  a  benevolent  old  sheep,  so  much  so,  that  when 


56  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

he  opened  his  mouth,  I  quite  expected  him  to 
bleat. 

Professor  Meake  faced  alternately  about  to 
Professor  Poap  and  to  the  voluble  angry  little 
man,  and  seemed  to  be  soothing  some  quarrel  be- 
tween them,  so  far  as  the  clatter  and  confusion 
permitted  me  to  judge. 

"That  little  man  is  Professor  Pugg,"  the  Di- 
rector bawled  in  my  ear.  "  P-u-u-u-g-g, "  he 
shouted. 

' '  The  one  who  is  shaking  his  fist  ? "  I  inquired 
in  a  rising  shriek. 

' '  Y-e-e-e-s-s, "  answered  the  Director,  in  a 
necessarily  louder  key.  "P-u-u-u-g-g.  He  has 
his  moments  of  excitement — e-x-x-c-i-i-i-te- 
m-e-e-e-n-t  when  he  is  filled  with  righteous  anger 
at  the  violence  and  wrong  that  are  p-e-e-e-r-pe- 
tr-a-a-a-ted  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

I  tried,  so  far  as  my  vocal  powers  were  equal 
to  the  task,  to  assure  the  Director  that  I  had 
every  sympathy  with  Professor  Pugg. 

At  that  moment  Professor  Pugg  dealt  a  nimble 
blow  which  was  intended  for  the  obnoxious  Poap, 
but  which  lighted  inopportunely  on  the  cheek  of 
the  intervening  Meake.  I  endeavoured  to  express 
my  sorrow  that  blows  which  are  intended  to  re- 
dress the  violence  and  wrong  that  are  perpetrated 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth  so  often  light  upon 
the  cheeks  of  innocent  persons. 

A  crowd  of  auxiliary  students,  clerks  and  at- 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  57 

tendants,  who  had  gradually  been  gathering  on 
either  side  according  to  the  bias  of  their  opinions, 
now  joined  in  the  fray  until  it  became  general  at 
that  end  of  the  room.  After  much  jostling  and 
recrimination,  Meake  contrived  to  lead  Pugg  into 
a  corner,  where  he  gradually  quieted  him  down; 
while  the  auxiliaries,  after  exchanging  some  rude 
remarks  and  a  few  vicious  blows,  dispersed  and 
settled  to  their  tasks,  the  Puggites  on  one  side 
of  the  room  and  the  Poapites  on  the  other.  The 
comparative  quiet  which  now  obtained  permitted 
the  Director  to  lower  his  voice,  and  to  give  me 
some  further  information,  interrupted  only  by 
the  incessant  clang  of  the  hammers  in  the  side 
room. 

"These  little  skirmishes,"  the  Director  ex- 
plained, "will  happen  occasionally.  We  welcome 
them  as  showing  the  strength  of  conviction  which 
animates  our  Professors.  However  regrettable 
in  themselves,  they  are  a  happy  augury  for  the 
ultimate  realization  of  our  Great  Idea  of  Per- 
petual Peace  all  the  world  over.  It  is  impossible 
that  men  who  are  so  much  in  earnest  can  fail  in 
the  end  to  find  a  solution. ' ' 

I  assented,  and  said  that  when  men  were  so 
much  in  earnest  as  to  punch  each  other's  heads, 
a  solution  of  the  question  was  bound  to  follow 
sooner  or  later. 

"Our  little  difficulties,"  the  Director  went  on, 
"arise  from  the  fact  that  it  is  necessary  to  ap- 


58  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

proach  a  problem  of  this  magnitude  from  all 
points  of  view.  We  therefore  decided  to  select 
representatives  of  all  schools  of  thought,  so  that 
the  matter  might  be  thoroughly  thrashed  out  be- 
fore we  decided  upon  our  course  of  action.  We 
were  fortunate  enough  to  secure  men  of  such 
equal  ability  and  renown,  and  at  the  same  time 
of  such  varying  outlook,  as  Professor  Poap,  Pro- 
fessor Pugg  and  Professor  Meake." 

At  that  moment  Pugg  made  an  attempt  to 
escape  from  the  corner  where  Meake  was  holding 
him,  but  being  restrained,  contented  himself  with 
making  a  threatening  gesture  over  Meake 's 
shoulder  at  Poap.  Poap  was  standing  in  a  sub- 
lime inflated  attitude  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
puffing  out  his  sallow  cheeks  to  their  utmost  ca- 
pacity, and  then  drawing  them  in,  as  alternate 
symbols  of  his  own  importance,  and  of  the  con- 
tempt he  felt  for  Pugg.  The  hammering  clatter 
in  the  next  room  never  ceased,  but  I  was  able  to 
hear  what  the  Director  said  without  any  great 
strain. 

"There  is  much  to  be  said  for  Pugg's  funda- 
mental contention,"  the  Director  remarked. 

I  asked  what  was  Pugg's  fundamental  conten- 
tion. 

"On  the  other  hand,  Poap  has  made  out  an 
unanswerable  case,"  the  Director  observed. 

Poap  blew  out  an  enormous  volume  of  wind 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  59 

from  his  cheeks,  as  though  dispersing  Pugg  in 
atoms  through  space. 

"An  absolutely  unanswerable,  unassailable 
case,"  the  Director  mused. 

I  asked  for  some  details  of  Poap's  absolutely 
unanswerable,   unassailable   case. 

' '  And  yet  Pugg  has  the  facts  on  his  side, ' '  the 
Director  allowed. 

I  said  it  was  sad  to  reflect  in  how  many  human 
affairs  all  the  reason  was  on  one  side  and  all  the 
facts  on  the  other. 

' '  Yes,  Pugg  excels  in  marshalling  his  facts,  but 
Poap  is  supreme  in  marshalling  his  arguments," 
the  Director  summed  up. 

I  asked  what  Meake's  position  was,  and 
whether  he  had  any  plans  or  views  on  the  mat- 
ter; for  his  face  was  so  amiably  devoid  of  any 
expression  or  intention  that  it  did  not  seem 
probable  he  could  form  any  definite  views  upon 
any  question  whatever;  or  if  he  could,  that  his 
opinions  could  have  any  force  or  weight. 

"Meake's  attitude,"  the  Director  replied,  "is 
of  immense  value  to  our  Cause,  because  of  its 
adaptability  to  all  persons,  circumstances,  devel- 
opments, and  possibilities.  Meake  has  enormous 
resiliency  which  makes  him  invulnerable.  Meake 
is  our  standby,  whatever  happens.  Meake  is  al- 
ways in  harmony  with  the  situation;  always  in 
touch  with  all  men  and  all  things. ' ' 

I  scarcely  knew  what  to  reply  to  this,  but  I 


60  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

thought  I  should  be  right  in  saying  that  Meake 
was  a  useful  and  handy  man  to  have  about  the 
place. 

"He  is  indeed,"  the  Director  cordially  as- 
sented. "I'm  not  sure  whether  our  Cause  will 
not  be  finally  won  by  Meake 's  methods,  rather 
than  by  Pugg's  or  Poap's.  Pugg  relies  upon 
facts.  Poap  relies  upon  arguments.  Meake 
avoids  both  facts  and  arguments.  What  is  the 
result?  At  the  outset  Meake  finds  himself  secure 
from  all  opposition,  secure  from  all  entangle- 
ments of  word  or  deed." 

I  was  much  taken  with  this.  I  said  I  was  con- 
vinced that  the  shortest,  perhaps  the  only  way  to 
establish  Perpetual  Peace  all  the  world  over,  was 
to  approach  the  subject  by  resolutely  avoiding 
all  facts  and  arguments  that  stand  in  the  way  of 
so  desirable  a  consummation. 

' '  Still, ' '  the  Director  continued,  ' '  we  must  not 
altogether  leave  out  of  sight  the  present  low 
mental  and  moral  level  of  the  masses  of  man- 
kind." 

I  agreed  that  it  might  be  advisable  to  keep 
this  in  mind  before  settling  the  question. 

"And  having  regard  to  the  deplorable  state  of 
human  affairs  at  the  present  moment,  there  is 
great  warrant  for  Pugg's  fundamental  conten- 
tion." 

I  again  asked  for  some  exposition  of  Pugg's 
fundamental  contention. 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  61 

"Pugg's  fundamental  contention  is  that  War 
invariably  arises  from  the  discontent,  greed, 
selfishness,  pride,  envy,  folly,  lust,  blindness,  am- 
bition, or  cruelty  of  mankind." 

I  said  that  Pugg  had  hit  the  nail  on  the  head, 
drawing  my  simile  from  the  ceaseless  hammering 
in  the  next  room. 

"War  is  therefore  inevitable  until  any  and 
every  national  exhibition  of  any  one  of  these  pas- 
sions is  met  and  crushed  by  superior  power." 

"Pugg  must  be  a  man  of  rare  insight,"  I  ex- 
claimed. 

"His  courage  is  equal  to  his  insight,"  the  Di- 
rector affirmed  with  somewhat  unnecessary  em- 
phasis; for  Pugg  had  escaped  from  Meake,  and 
had  again  joined  issue  with  Poap  in  what  seemed 
likely  to  end  in  a  display  of  superior  power  by 
one  or  the  other  of  them. 

"Pugg  has  his  moments  of  excitement,"  the 
Director  repeated,  and  went  on  to  develop  Pugg's 
scheme  for  securing  Perpetual  Peace. 

"In  order  that  War  may  be  instantly  met  by 
superior  power,  Pugg  proposes  to  rally  all  the 
nations  on  the  side  of  Peace,  and  to  create  a  great 
international  invincible  armament  to  be  held  in 
readiness,  night  and  day,  at  all  naval  and  military 
points  of  vantage  all  the  world  over,  so  that  it  may 
instantly  swoop  down  on  War  and  crush  it  out  the 
moment  it  raises  its  head.      To  put  it  briefly, 


62  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

Pugg's  formula  is,  'War  upon  War,  at  any  and 
every  moment,  anywhere  and  everywhere.' 

I  enthusiastically  approved  the  general  outline 
of  Pugg's  scheme,  and  asked  for  some  details  as 
to  its  working.  The  Director  said  that  Pugg  had 
gone  minutely  into  all  particulars  in  his  lately 
published  volume,  "War  Finally  Vanished." 
All  that  was  now  necessary  to  insure  the  success 
of  his  plan  was  to  get  the  different  nations  to 
agree  to  it.  At  the  present  moment  they  were 
busy  upon  other  matters,  but  the  Director  did 
not  doubt  that  as  soon  as  their  hands  were  free, 
they  would  immediately  give  in  their  adhesion 
to  Pugg's  proposals. 

I  began  to  think  that  Pugg's  bold  and  compre- 
hensive scheme  for  securing  Perpetual  Peace 
might  after  all  prove  more  effectual  than  Meake  's 
gentler  methods.  But  before  I  committed  myself, 
I  thought  I  should  like  to  know  something  of 
Poap's  attitude.  I  therefore  asked  the  Director 
for  some  enlightenment  as  to  the  leading  prin- 
ciples on  which  Poap  worked  towards  the  blessed 
end  which  we  were  all  determined  to  secure. 

"Poap  takes  his  stand "  the  Director  re- 
sumed, but  stopped,  for  the  altercation  between 
Poap  and  Pugg  had  again  become  so  violent  that 
Meake  could  no  longer  keep  them  from  blows. 
At  last,  with  the  aid  of  superior  force  from 
Poap's  pupils,  Meake  persuasively  dragged  Pugg 
to  the  main  door  of  the  Sanctuary. 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  63 

"Let  us  sit  down  quietly  and  talk  it  over," 
said  Meake.  "  I  'ni  sure  there 's  no  real  difference 
of  opinion  between  any  of  us.  We  all  agree  as 
to  the  end.    We  only  differ  as  to  the  means." 

With  that  he  got  Pugg  to  the  door ;  whereupon 
Pugg  turned  and  shouted  :  ' '  Down  with  War ! 
Root  it  out!  Exterminate  it!  Down  with  it,  I 
say." 

"That's  what  we  all  say.  War  must  cease. 
We  all  think  alike  about  it,"  Meake  softly 
bleated,  as  he  tried  to  get  Pugg  away. 

' '  Down  with  War ! ' '  clamoured  Pugg,  standing 
at  the  door.  "Away  with  it  at  all  costs!  Root 
it  out!  War  upon  War!"  He  shook  his  fist  at 
Poap,  and  strode  angrily  into  the  Hall,  followed 
by  Meake. 

Poap  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  as 
Pugg  went  off,  distended  his  cheeks  to  their  ut- 
most capacity,  and  metaphorically  blew  Pugg  in 
viewless  particles  into  the  vast  inane. 

"That  little  bully,"  said  Poap,  advancing 
ominously  upon  us,  "hasn't  the  brains  of  a  tad- 
pole." 

He  again  loaded  his  cheeks,  and  with  a  tremen- 
dous explosion  scattered  Pugg  into  immensity. 

"I  was  just  about  to  explain  the  cardinal  prin- 
ciples of  your  crusade  against  War,"  said  the 
Director,  introducing  me  to  Poap,  with  a  pleasant 
smile. 

"My  cardinal  principles  are  the  first  axioms  of 


64  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

common  sense/'  said  Poap.  "If  you  will  care- 
fully study  what  I  have  written  here  you  will 
see  that  for  the  future,  "War  is  impossible." 

He  produced  fourteen  bulky  closely  printed 
tracts  and  thrust  them  into  my  hands.  I  must  own 
to  a  constitutional  nervous  horror  of  tracts,  dat- 
ing from  one  summer  evening  in  early  life,  when 
my  sainted  grandmother,  now  resting  from  her 
earthly  labours  of  distributing  them,  forced  me  to 
accompany  her,  and  to  present  one  to  each  mem- 
ber of  a  neighbouring  colony  of  violently  abusive 
railway  navvies.  After  some  little  involuntary 
hesitation,  I  accepted  Poap's  bundle  of  fourteen 
tracts. 

The  title  of  each  one  of  them  was  clearly 
printed  on  the  top,  as  thus — "War — an  anachron- 
ism," "War — an  intolerable  nuisance,"  "War — 
its  profound  immorality, "  "  War — its  outrageous 
absurdity, ' '  and  so  on ;  each  tract  dealing  with  a 
different  aspect  of  the  question.  I  was  very  much 
impressed  with  these  titles,  and  as  I  glanced  at 
them,  I  could  not  help  expressing  my  surprise 
that  the  human  race,  having  been  almost  con- 
stantly at  war,  both  before  and  since  it  emerged 
from  apehood,  had  never  suspected  in  all  these 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  years  what  an  intol- 
erable nuisance,  and  what  an  outrageous  absurd- 
ity it  was. 

"I  have  made  War  for  ever  ridiculous,"  ex- 
claimed Poap.     "For  the  future,  no  soldier  will 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  65 

ever  enlist  under  any  flag  without  feeling  that 
he  is  making  an  utter  ass  of  himself." 

I  remarked  that  the  distinguished  eighteenth 
century  dramatist,  Mr.  Puff,  had  designed  a  play 
to  show  the  absurdity  of  housebreaking.  I  said 
it  was  a  thousand  pities  the  play  had  never  been 
written,  and  that  consequently  burglars  and 
thieves  went  about  their  business  without  the  least 
suspicion  of  the  ridiculous  nature  of  their  calling. 

"I  have  killed  War  from  fourteen  different 
standpoints,"  continued  Poap  with  another  tre- 
mendous spout.  "Each  one  of  my  tracts,  when 
properly  understood,  will  make  War  impossible. 
Especially  that  one." 

He  pointed  to  a  fat  tract  which  was  uppermost 
in  my  hand  and  which  was  labelled,  "War — an 
Economic  Fallacy." 

I  thought  of  my  own  sadly  impoverished  pri- 
vate exchequer,  and  said  I  had  every  reason  to 
be  grateful  to  the  man  who  pointed  out  the  pe- 
cuniary discomforts  of  going  to  war. 

"Discomforts!"  Poap  exploded.  "Henceforth 
any  nation  that  attempts  to  go  to  War  will  merely 
break  down  in  a  speedy  and  general  financial 
fiasco. ' ' 

He  went  on  to  explain,  with  much  pneumatic 
eloquence,  that  our  present  system  of  interna- 
tional credit  would  instantly  strangle  any  future 
war  by  the  simple  automatic  action  of  economic 
pressure.      I  was  glad  to  hear  this,  and  said  it 


66  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

was  to  be  regretted  that  the  nations  had  only  just 
begun  to  perceive  this  automatic  economic  pres- 
sure, and  that  meantime  millions  and  millions  of 
wretched  peasants  throughout  Europe  had  starved 
without  taking  advantage  of  it. 

"Now,"  I  suggested,  "if  only  each  one  of  these 
luckless  millions  had  taken  the  precaution,  before 
dying,  to  write  a  short  treatise  on  the  economic 
aspects  of  "War,  and  to  point  out  the  practical 
inconveniences  of  starving,  we  should  doubtless 
have  come  to  an  earlier  realization  of  this  benefi- 
cent automatic  economic  pressure.  However,  I 
rejoice  to  hear  that  War  is  henceforth  impossible 
from  economic  reasons." 

I  added  that  so  long  as  War  was  rendered  im- 
possible, I  didn't  care  a  jot  by  which  of  his  four- 
teen tracts  this  desirable  end  was  attained. 

"Nineteen  tracts  you  mean.  I  have  yet  five 
aspects  of  the  question  to  treat,"  said  Poap,  ex- 
pelling a  series  of  invisible  balloons  from  his  dis- 
tended cheeks.  "I  shall  then  have  banished  War 
from  the  face  of  the  earth  by  nineteen  several 
overpowering  and  irrefragable  arguments." 

I  congratulated  him  on  leaving  no  loophole  of 
excuse  to  any  nation  for  going  to  War  in  the 
future.  He  then  proposed  to  sketch  the  outlines 
of  his  five  remaining  prospective  tracts,  but  the 
unbearable  buzzing  in  my  ears,  and  the  clangour 
in  the  next  room  obliged  me  to  say  that  I  would 
make  some  future  appointment  with  him.    Mean- 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  67 

time  I  would  carefully  study  the  fourteen  tracts 
he  had  already  given  me.  I  put  them  in  my 
pocket,  and  said  they  should  occupy  an  honoured 
place  on  my  library  shelves.  He  then  wished  me 
a  voluminous  "Good  morning,"  and  mounting  a 
kind  of  pulpit  on  his  side  of  the  room,  proceeded 
to  address  a  body  of  young  Poapites  on  "The 
Preposterous  Futility  of  Armaments." 

The  Director  admiringly  watched  him. 

"A  born  orator!"  he  exclaimed. 

I  said  I  had  already  guessed  as  much  from  the 
immense  quantity  of  wind  he  blew  off.  Poap  con- 
tinued at  great  length,  punctuating  his  sentences 
with  outbursts  of  triumphant  flatulency. 

"What  an  inexhaustible  wealth  of  incontro- 
vertible argument ! ' '  the  Director  ejaculated. 

I  agreed,  but  ventured  to  say  that  while  I  had 
every  hope  that  Poap's  incontrovertible  argu- 
ments would  convert  the  world,  I  should  in  the 
meantime  like  to  see  some  practical  measure  taken 
to  prevent  the  nations  from  going  to  War. 

' '  Ah ! ' '  said  the  Director  with  a  seraphic  smile, 
1 '  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  say  that.  And  now 
I  '11  show  you  that  we  are  not  content  with  words 
in  the  Sanctuary  of  Perpetual  Peace.  We  do  not 
rest  in  Theory.  We  advance  to  Action.  Come 
this  way. ' ' 

He  led  me  to  the  door  of  the  room  from  whence 
came  the  continual  din  of  hammers.  I  followed 
him  inside  and  found  myself  in  a  kind  of  black- 


68  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

smith's  forge.  A  dozen  men,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  were  energetically  beating  upon  anvils 
after  the  manner  of  a  smith  who  pounds  away  at  a 
horseshoe.  Four  other  men  were  furiously  work- 
ing at  large  bellows,  while  the  furnaces  spat  and 
glowed  with  white  heat,  and  the  whole  place  was 
enveloped  in  a  mist  of  smoke  and  steam.  Large 
heaps  of  swords  of  all  shapes  and  sizes  were 
stacked  upon  the  floor.  It  did  not  take  me  long  to 
realize  that  the  smiths  were  busily  employed  in 
beating  the  swords  into  ploughshares.  I  expressed 
my  approbation. 

"You  have  no  idea  of  the  arduous  nature  of 
our  task,"  the  Director  said. 

I  replied  that  I  could  readily  imagine  that  it 
must  be  an  enormously  difficult  business,  since 
mankind  had  been  intermittently  engaged  in  it 
since  the  days  of  the  prophet  Micah,  and  had  ac- 
complished so  little. 

"We  are  making  good  headway  here,"  the  Di- 
rector cheerfully  claimed,  as  he  handed  me  a 
ploughshare  to  examine.  "We  opened  this  forge 
less  than  three  years  ago,  and  we  have  already 
turned  out  five  ploughshares."  He  pointed  to 
four  others  which  were  lying  prominently  on  a 
mahogany  shelf  close  by.  I  could  not  honestly 
affirm  that  they  were  good  workmanlike  plough- 
shares, or  that  they  would  be  of  any  use  on  a 
farm,  but  I  applauded  the  benevolent  intentions 
which  had  fashioned  them.    I  said  a  word  or  two 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  69 

of  cordial  encouragement  to  the  smiths  who  were 
sweating  in  this  pacific  enterprise,  and  then,  as  I 
remembered  my  appointment  with  the  Rate  Col- 
lector, I  again  begged  the  Director  to  be  good 
enough  to  tell  me  what  o'clock  it  was. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  grudge  the  time  you  have 
spent  in  the  '  Theatre  of  Ideas, '  ' '  the  Director  re- 
plied, with  an  accent  of  reproach. 

I  hastened  to  assure  him  that  I  had  never  spent 
so  profitable  a  morning,  and  that  I  had  never 
been  so  deeply  impressed  with  the  vast  and  pro- 
digious energies  of  the  human  mind.  Indeed 
I  was  very  much  afraid  I  had  overstepped  my 
engagement. 

"Well,  we'll  see  how  the  time  is  getting  on," 
the  Director  amiably  acquiesced.  And  he  led  the 
way  into  the  main  hall. 

I  staggered  after  him,  as  quickly  as  the  deafen- 
ing noises  in  my  ear  and  the  whirling  move- 
ments of  the  building  would  permit.  He  waited 
for  me  just  outside  the  Sanctuary,  and  closed  its 
door  after  me.  I  asked  him  to  be  kind  enough 
to  let  me  lean  against  the  wall  while  he  ascer- 
tained the  time. 

I  had  more  than  once  noticed  a  very  large 
clock  over  the  bandstand ;  but  the  dimness  of  the 
light  had  prevented  me  from  seeing  how  the  time 
was  passing.  The  Director  did  not  look  up  at  the 
face  of  the  clock,  but  went  straight  to  an  indi- 
cator, which  was  placed  in  a  panel  directly  be- 


70  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

neath,  and  at  a  convenient  level  for  consultation. 

By  steadfastly  peering  at  the  clock,  I  saw  that 
both  hands  were  travelling  over  the  dial  at  a  tre- 
mendous pace ;  the  hour  hand  covered  the  entire 
circle  in  about  ninety  seconds,  and  the  minute 
hand  moved  so  quickly  that  it  was  almost  impos- 
sible to  follow  it,  The  Director  returned  from 
consulting  the  indicator. 

"It  is  now  about  five  a.  m.,  on  the  seventh  of 
November,  Anno  Domini  2439,"  he  said. 

"What?"  I  exclaimed. 

"It  is  now  half -past  ten  on  the  same  day,"  he 
replied.  I  was  baffled,  and  asked  for  an  explana- 
tion. 

"About  two  years  ago,"  he  informed  me,  "we 
discovered  that  in  spite  of  all  our  efforts,  the 
Theatre  of  Ideas  was  pervaded  by  a  sense  of  bore- 
dom and  depression.  We  endeavoured  by  all 
means  in  our  power  to  combat  this  feeling,  for  the 
sake  of  the  reputation  of  those  who  were  praising 
it,  not  only  as  a  centre  of  profound  philosophy, 
but  also  as  a  means  of  passing  a  pleasant  hour. 
When  we  built  the  Theatre  of  Ideas  it  never 
occurred  to  us  that  our  audiences  might  be 
bored." 

"They  ought  not  to  have  been,"  I  said.  "It 
was  most  ungrateful. ' ' 

"It  was  more  than  ungrateful,"  he  sternly 
affirmed.  "It  was  gross  criminal  ignorance  and 
negligence.    Still,  they  were  bored.    We  shut  our 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  71 

eyes  to  the  fact  as  long  as  we  could,  but  it  be- 
came too  apparent  to  be  concealed  any  longer. 
The  feeling  of  boredom  and  depression  increased 
to  such  an  alarming  extent  that  we  had  to  do 
something,  or  .shut  up  the  place  altogether." 

"What  steps  did  you  take?"  I  asked,  "to  pre- 
vent such  a  national  calamity?" 

"We  instituted  an  exhaustive  inquiry  into  the 
causes  of  Human  Boredom,"  he  replied. 

"That  was  going  to  the  root  of  the  matter,"  I 
said  with  cordial  approbation. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  "we  examined  endless 
witnesses;  including  the  popular  preachers  of  all 
denominations,  our  leading  public  speakers,  the 
contributors  to  our  comic  papers,  and  all  the 
secretaries  of  the  various  anti-associations ;  we  col- 
lected all  available  information  and  tested  every 
theory  and  suggestion." 

"All  these  experts  must  have  thrown  a  flood 
of  light  on  the  matter,"  I  said. 

"They  did,"  he  assented.  "Several  times  we 
thought  we  were  on  the  right  track.  In  fact  as 
soon  as  the  eminent  paradoxist,  Mr.  Twaddledum, 
had  given  his  evidence  in  a  series  of  his  brilliant 
double  paradoxes,  one  of  our  members  asked  if 
we  need  pursue  the  inquiry  any  further.  And 
he  threatened  to  resign  if  we  called  the  cele- 
brated triple-paradoxist,  Mr.  Twaddledee,  who 
was  waiting  to  come  before  us.  The  objecting 
member  was  strongly  opposed  by  another  mem- 


72  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

ber,  who  defended  paradoxes  on  the  ground  that 
his  aunt  Maria  and  many  of  the  supporters  of  the 
Theatre  of  Ideas  still  laughed  at  them,  and 
thought  them  clever.  And  he  pointed  out  how 
much  the  Theatre  of  Ideas  had  owed  to  the  skilful 
manipulation  of  paradoxes  in  the  past,  and  said 
that  he  did  not  think  it  honourable  in  us  to  throw 
them  over — merely  because  people  were  finding 
them  out  to  be  tiresome  and  meaningless.  We 
had  a  long  and  heated  discussion,  and  finally  it 
was  carried  by  five  votes  to  four  that  the  per- 
petration of  paradoxes  was  not  the  only  source 
of  human  boredom ;  but  that  there  must  be  some 
deeper  underlying  universal  cause.  We  sent 
down  a  courteous  message  to  Mr.  Twaddledee  that 
we  should  not  require  his  attendance.  When 
quiet  was  restored,  we  settled  ourselves  with  re- 
newed earnestness  to  discover  the  universal  cause 
of  boredom." 

"Was  the  inquiry  a  long  one?"  I  asked. 

"We  started  it  in  March,"  he  replied,  "and 
sat  for  three  afternoons  every  week.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  July,  it  was  apparent  that  we  had 
made  but  little  progress.  So  we  unanimously 
decided  to  give  up  our  annual  holiday,  and  devote 
the  whole  of  the  vacation  to  our  search." 

I  said  there  was  evidently  no  sympathy  with 
slackness  in  the  Theatre  of  Ideas. 

"No,  indeed,"  he  replied.  "Whatever  we  un- 
dertake, we  do  thoroughly." 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  73 

I  applauded  this  spirit. 

"Because  a  thing  is  not  worth  doing,"  he  con- 
tinued, "is  no  reason  for  not  doing  it  well,  and 
in  a  reverent  spirit." 

I  agreed  with  him,  and  mentioned  golf  and 
theological  discussion. 

' '  I  was  President  of  the  Inquiry, ' '  the  Director 
went  on.  "During  the  whole  of  the  seven  months 
that  we  sat,  I  rarely  got  to  bed  before  two ;  and 
at  the  time  of  greatest  pressure,  in  the  middle 
of  August,  I  did  not  change  my  clothes  for  ten 
days." 

I  looked  at  him  with  unfeigned  admiration, 
and  asked  him  if  his  health  had  not  suffered.  He 
replied  that  although  his  bodily  energies  had  been 
much  dissipated,  his  whole  moral  character  had 
been  braced  and  elevated. 

"And,"  he  added,  "I  was  sustained  through- 
out by  the  hope  that  we  should  be  successful ;  and 
that  by  discovering  the  universal  cause  of  bore- 
dom, we  might  at  the  same  time  provide  the 
human  race  with  an  infallible  means  of  escape 
from  it." 

"And  were  you  successful?"  I  asked. 

"Beyond  our  wildest  hopes,"  he  replied  en- 
thusiastically. "We  not  only  discovered  the 
cause  of  boredom  in  the  Theatre  of  Ideas,  but  its 
absolute  and  universal  cause  everywhere  and  al- 
ways.    Yes,"  he  pursued,  "it  will  never  again 


74  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

be  necessary  for  mankind  to  hold  an  inquiry  on 
the  subject." 

I  said  I  was  glad  of  this,  and  asked  what  con- 
clusion they  had  arrived  at.  He  replied  that  the 
absolute  and  universal  cause  of  boredom  was  that 
men  had  constructed  their  clocks  and  watches  on 
a  false  and  viciously  reduced  scale  of  chronom- 
etry,  which  made  the  respective  portions  of  time 
— weeks,  days,  hours,  minutes,  seem  to  be  in- 
tolerably long  in  passing. 

"You  never  feel  bored  when  the  hours  are  fly- 
ing so  fast  that  you  do  not  perceive  their  dura- 
tion," he  pointed  out. 

I  readily  assented  to  this. 

"As  soon  as  we  had  made  our  discovery,"  he 
went  on,  "we  set  to  work  to  make  a  practical  use 
of  it.  In  less  than  three  weeks  we  had  invented, 
designed,  manufactured,  and  patented  this  two 
hundred  horse-power  chronometer  which  causes 
an  hour  to  pass  so  quickly  that  you  scarcely  no- 
tice it.  No  boredom  now  in  the  Theatre  of 
Ideas!" 

I  suggested  that  there  were  other  places  of 
amusement  where  a  clock  of  that  description 
would  afford  great  relief  to  the  audiences.  He 
said  they  had  the  matter  under  consideration. 
But  for  the  present  their  first  care  must  be  to 
shield  the  Theatre  of  Ideas  from  becoming  a  place 
of  boredom. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "if  we  were  to  sanction  the 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  75 

use  of  our  clock  in  other  theatres,  we  should  lose 
our  relative  advantage  over  them.  However,  as 
soon  as  we  feel  secure  against  the  imputation  of 
boredom  in  the  public  mind,  we  shall  allow  some 
other  national  institutions  gradually  to  profit  by 
our  discovery." 

I  asked  him  what  institutions  he  thought  were 
most  in  need  of  an  installation.  He  said  that 
clergymen  of  all  denominations  were  complaining 
of  the  difficulty  they  had  in  attracting  a  congre- 
gation, and  he  thought  that  the  various  churches 
and  chapels  of  the  country  had  the  first  claim  to 
benefit  by  their  epoch-making  discovery. 

I  once  more  asked  him  if  he  could  kindly  tell 
me  the  present  hour,  as  the  Rate  Collector  was 
waiting  for  me  to  pay  my  half-yearly  contribu- 
tion to  Popular  Education.  He  invited  me  to 
guess  the  time  in  order  that  I  might  realize  the 
importance  and  significance  of  their  invention. 
I  replied  that  I  had  scarcely  adjusted  myself  to 
the  new  computation,  and  I  would  feel  obliged 
if  he  would  tell  me  the  exact  hour.  He  went  up 
to  the  indicator,  and  returning,  said  that  it  was 
two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  8th  of  No- 
vember. 

"Are  we  still  in  the  same  year?"  I  inquired. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  replied,  "we  are  still  in  Anno 
Domini  2439.  We  don't  move  so  quickly  as  all 
that." 

The  buzzing  in  my  ears  was  becoming  unendur- 


76  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

able,  and  the  building  was  now  whirling  at  such 
a  terrific  speed  that  only  the  inhabitants  and 
frequenters  of  the  place  could  keep  their  stand- 
ing. So  accustomed,  however,  had  they  become 
to  the  revolution  that  they  scarcely  noticed  it, 
but  continued  to  move  about  with  the  greatest 
ease  and  freedom.  Noticing  my  apparent  dis- 
comfort, the  Director  asked  me  if  I  was  not  satis- 
fied with  the  rate  of  chronic  acceleration  which 
they  had  fixed.  I  replied  that  I  was  perfectly 
satisfied,  and  that  I  had  never  in  my  life  known 
time  to  pass  so  quickly. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said.  "We  consider 
that  we  have  been  most  generous  in  our  allow- 
ance. If  after  this  any  one  feels  bored  in  the 
Theatre  of  Ideas,  we  shall  not  afford  him  any 
further  alleviation.  "We  shall  simply  allow  him 
to  feel  bored.  We  can  make  no  further  conces- 
sion to  an  infirmity  which  we  expect  all  our  loyal 
supporters  to  conquer  or  hide." 

He  said  this  with  great  determination. 

While  I  was  endeavoring  to  regain  my  equili- 
brium, I  asked  him  upon  what  basis  they  had 
made  their  calculations  as  to  the  necessary  and 
sufficient  rate  of  acceleration  which  would  meet 
the  exigencies  of  the  case. 

"The  first  factor  we  had  to  consider,"  he  an- 
swered, "was  the  amount  of  boredom  which  had 
been  generated,  and  what  chronometrical  aug- 
mentation would  be  necessary  to  dispel  it.     The 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  77 

second  factor  we  had  to  consider  was  our  ca- 
pacity for  originating  Ideas  suitable  to  the  era 
and  date  registered  on  our  indicator.  By  com- 
bining these  two  factors,  and  subjecting  them  to 
our  own  methods  of  rhabdology,  in  our  newly- 
tested  rhabdological  instruments,  we  arrived  at 
the  precise  rhabdological  result." 

I  tried  to  look  as  if  I  knew  something  about 
rhabdology,  but  I  am  not  sure  that  I  succeeded. 

"And  that  rhabdological  result  nothing  will 
induce  us  to  alter,  while  rhabdology  remains  one 
of  the  exact  sciences,"  he  affirmed,  with  what  I 
thought  was  unnecessary  emphasis,  for  I  had 
shown  no  disposition  to  argue  about  rhabdology. 

However,  1  thought  I  should  be  safe  in  heartily 
approving  his  determination,  and  I  did  so ;  at  the 
same  time  taking  the  first  chance  to  divert  the 
conversation  from  rhabdology,  as  I  felt  myself 
on  very  insecure  ground.  I  therefore  congratu- 
lated him  upon  their  evident  success  in  starting 
and  working  Ideas  that  were  eminently  suited  to 
the  date  registered  on  the  indicator.  He  seemed 
to  grow  a  little  despondent. 

' '  We  have  great  difficulty  in  keeping  pace  with 
the  times,"  he  said.  "Even  with  all  our  un- 
rivalled devices  for  stimulating  intellectual  ac- 
tivity and  originality,  I  often  ask  myself,  'Are 
our  Ideas  genuinely  up  to  date  ? '  " 

I  did  my  best  to  relieve  his  anxiety  on  this 
score,  and  said  that,  on  the  contrary,  so  far  as 


78  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

I  could  judge,  all  their  Ideas  seemed,  if  anything, 
somewhat  too  advanced  even  for  the  twenty-fifth 
century.  He  said  this  was  a  fault  which  would 
soon  remedy  itself,  as  it  would  not  take  them 
long  to  reach  the  twenty-sixth. 

I  had  been  steadying  myself  by  clutching  at 
the  pedestal  of  the  Polyfadistic  Impossiblist.  The 
Director  warned  me  that  it  was  so  uncertain  upon 
its  foundations  that  it  might  fall  upon  me,  as  it 
had  fallen  upon  the  unlucky  journalists.  He 
would  not  answer  for  anything  that  it  might  or 
might  not  do ;  I  hastily  let  go  my  hold,  and  made 
for  the  main  door  of  exit.  But  the  incessant  whirl 
of  the  building  would  have  tripped  me  up,  if  the 
Director  had  not  come  to  my  aid  and  kept  me  on 
my  feet.  I  asked  him  if  he  would  kindly  assist 
me  across  the  hall ;  he  courteously  offered  me  his 
arm,  and  supported  me  to  the  vestibule. 

We  passed  the  crowd  of  spectators.  They  were 
still  loudly  applauding.  Pegasus  was  still  rock- 
ing; the  rider  was  still  stabbing  away.  I  ex- 
pressed some  surprise  at  his  continued  efforts. 

"Ah!"  he  said  with  a  deep  sigh,  "social  abuses 
are  so  persistent,  so  hard  to  kill.  If  it  weren't 
for  the  applause  of  our  kind  friends,  and  the  nice 
notices  we  get  in  the  newspapers,  it  would  hardly 
be  worth  while  to  attack  them." 

We  passed  through  the  outer  doors,  and  stood 
on  the  top  of  the  handsome  flight  of  broad  marble 
stairs  that  led  up  to  the  Theatre  of  Ideas.    By 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  79 

this  time,  I  had  a  little  regained  my  balance,  but 
I  felt  indisposed  to  risk  an  immediate  descent 
into  thg  roadway.  For  I  observed  that  all  the 
spectator's  who  left  the  building  had  much  ado 
to  prevent  themselves  from  tumbling  as  soon  as 
they  stepped  on  to  the  pavement.  They  had  to 
descend  very  warily,  balancing  themselves  care- 
fully on  each  step ;  but  in  spite  of  these  precau- 
tions they  could  not  always  avoid  an  accident. 
Most  of  them  were  regular  frequenters  and  sub- 
scribers, and  were  well  aware  of  the  perilous 
nature  of  the  exit.  The  Director  had  a  nod  or  a 
kindly  word,  or  a  shake  of  the  hands  for  each  of 
them.  They  all  manifested  or  expressed  their 
delight  at  the  performances ;  each  face  had  a  look 
of  intense  self-satisfaction.  A  young  lady  of 
about  sixteen  came  up  and  shook  hands  warmly 
with  the  Director.  She  overwhelmed  him  with 
thanks  and  congratulations. 

"It's  a  fresh  revelation  to  me  every  time  I 
come,"  she  declared.  "I  see  everything!  I  feel 
everything!  I  know  everything!  I  comprehend 
everything!     I  am  everything!" 

The  moment  she  reached  the  pavement  she  fell 
flat  on  her  face  with  her  nose  on  the  curbstone, 
and  her  hands  spread  out  into  the  roadway.  A 
passing  dustman  picked  her  up,  and  carefully 
wiped  away  the  mud  from  the  large  panache  she 
wore  on  her  hat. 

"I  have  acquired  a  new  sense  to-day,"  said  a 


80  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

dreamy  unkempt  young  man  with  an  aggressive 
forehead,  and  a  small  receding  chin.  "Morality 
and  Space  are  identical  and  commensurate. 
There  are  eleven  dimensions  in  each." 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  he  expected  some  cor- 
roboration. I  said  that  Kant  had  speculated 
upon  the  same  subjects  without  reaching  so  large 
and  definite  a  conclusion. 

He  said  that  Kant  had  never  formed  a  true 
conception  of  Space  or  Morality,  and  was  a  sorry 
blunderer  through  such  problems.  He  went  down 
the  steps  with  what  seemed  to  me  an  undue  con- 
fidence. As  his  foot  touched  the  ground  beneath, 
he  slipped  up  as  if  he  had  trodden  upon  orange 
peel,  regained  his  balance,  plunged  forward, 
turned  round  once  or  twice,  and  rolled  over  into 
the  road.  A  brutal  grocer 's  boy  made  jeering  re- 
marks at  his  expense. 

A  very  amiable  looking  old  gentleman  with 
gold-rimmed  spectacles  came  out  of  the  building 
and  shook  hands  with  the  Director. 

"Wonderful !"  he  said.  "Wonderful!  I 
shall  write  to  my  bankers  to  double  my  subscrip- 
tion." 

He  went  down  the  steps  with  some  care,  but 
with  the  alacrity  of  one  practised  in  the  descent. 

"That  is  our  oldest  and  most  valued  sub- 
scriber," the  Director  informed  me.  "He  never 
misses  a  performance." 

The  old  and  valued  subscriber  managed  a  sue- 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  81 

eessful  negotiation  with  the  pavement;  but  he 
had  not  gone  two  steps  before  he  became  violently 
unsteady,  waved  his  arms  about,  and  finally  sat 
down  in  a  large  puddle  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
while  his  new  shiny  hat  rolled  under  the  wheel 
of  a  van,  and  unbared  a  large  expanse  of  shiny 
cranium,  perfectly  bald. 

So  far  was  he  from  being  discomfited  at  this, 
or  disposed  to  regard  it  as  a  misfortune,  that  he 
made  no  attempt  to  rise,  but  looked  around  cheer- 
fully, and  waved  his  hand  gaily  at  the  Director, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  had  triumphantly  accom- 
plished an  acrobatic  feat.  The  Director  waved 
his  hand  in  return,  and  smiled  and  nodded  sym- 
pathetically. 

''That  is  what  we  pride  ourselves  upon  most 
of  all,"  said  the  Director. 

"What?"  I  asked. 

"The  practical  and  ennobling  results  of  our 
teaching  upon  character.  "We  inspire  our  follow- 
ers with  a  sublime  courage  that  not  merely  enables 
them  bravely  to  face  the  troubles  and  misfortunes 
of  everyday  life,  but  actually  to  rejoice  in  them. 
Nobody  but  a  constant  subscriber  to  the  Theatre 
of  Ideas  could  have  met  disaster  in  the  spirit  of 
my  friend  there  in  the  puddle." 

And  he  gave  the  old  gentleman  another  cheery 
nod,  to  which  the  other  responded  with  a  beaming 
smile,  and  another  triumphant  wave  of  the  hand. 

"It's    a   splendid    moral   discipline,"    I   said. 


82  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

And  I  felt  inwardly  rebuked,  for  I  remembered 
that  only  the  day  before  I  had  used  bad  language 
as  I  picked  myself  up  from  an  ill-judged  exit 
from  a  motor  bus. 

The  Director  asked  me  if  he  could  give  me  any 
further  information.  I  said  that  I  had  received 
as  much  as  I  could  easily  assimilate  for  the  time. 
I  added,  however,  that  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
why  the  man  on  his  head  had  called  me  a  Trilo- 
bite. 

' '  When  were  you  born  ? ' '  asked  the  Director. 

"In  1851,"  I  replied. 

' '  Then  you  are  a  Trilobite, ' '  he  answered. 

' '  Are  you  quite  sure  I  'm  a  Trilobite  1 "  I  gently 
inquired. 

1 '  You  are  not  merely  a  Trilobite, ' '  he  declared ; 
"you  are  an  ancient  and  confirmed  Trilobite  of 
the  most  Trilobitish  order  of  Trilobites. " 

I  stood  aghast  at  this,  and  asked  for  an  ex- 
planation. He  replied  that  the  Theatre  of  Ideas, 
in  the  few  years  of  its  existence,  had  accomplished 
a  transformation  of  the  human  mind  and  spirit 
as  complete  as  that  which  had  been  slowly 
wrought  in  the  strata  of  the  earth  during  four 
geological  epochs;  and  that  any  one  who  had 
been  bred  in  the  mental  and  spiritual  atmosphere 
of  the  previous  generation  was  necessarily  nothing 
but  a  fossil  of  a  very  low  type.  I  suppose  my 
features  must  have  expressed  some  discontent  at 
being  thus  classified,   for  dropping  his  usually 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  83 

courteous  manner,  lie  asked  with  some  asperity, 
"If  you  are  a  Trilobite,  what's  the  use  of  deny- 
ing it?" 

I  made  haste  to  propitiate  him  by  saying,  "Of 
course  I  am  a  Trilobite,  it's  not  the  least  use  my 
denying  it." 

I  then  thanked  him  heartily  for  all  the  trouble 
he  had  taken,  and  he  wished  me  "Good-day." 

"Come  and  see  us  again!"  he  added  cordially, 
' '  come  often. ' ' 

I  promised  that  I  would,  and  wished  the  insti- 
tution every  possible  success. 

"A  very  advanced  thinker,"  I  said  to  myself, 
as  I  began  a  very  leisurely,  careful  descent ;  being 
resolved  to  avoid  disaster  at  the  bottom  if  I  pos- 
sibly could.  The  outside  porter  noticed  my  ex- 
treme caution  and  very  obligingly  came  to  my  as- 
sistance. He  was  a  stout  man,  with  a  jovial  red 
face,  and  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"What  about  these  Ideas?"  I  questioned  him. 

"Well,  what  about  'em?"  he  replied,  with  a 
broadish  grin. 

"Well,  what  about  them?"  I  pursued. 

He  winked  at  me  and  gave  me  a  nudge  in  the 
ribs  with  the  arm  which  he  was  lending  to  sup- 
port me.  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  this  was  no 
answer  to  my  question,  and  pressed  him  again 
for  his  views.  He  adroitly  evaded  the  point  by 
a  series  of  generalizations  and  a  short  anecdote. 

"Well  sir,"  he  said,  "some  people  think  they 


84«  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

know  all  about  everything  better  than  everybody 
else.  And  other  folks  think  that  such  folks  are 
mistaken.  I  won't  say  which  party  is  right.  All 
the  same  I  may  have  my  opinion  about  it.  I  may 
have  my  opinion  about  lots  of  things.  And  I  may 
be  right.  But  on  the  other  hand,  I  may  be 
wrong.  One  thing  is  certain;  if  some  people 
have  one  opinion  about  a  thing,  and  other  folks 
have  a  clean  contrary  opinion,  they  can't  both 
be  right.  But  I  wouldn  't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that 
both  of  'em  mightn't  be  wrong.  But  Lor'  bless 
you  sir,  when  it  comes  to  opinions,  it's  like  choos- 
ing a  new  necktie — there's  so  many  different 
patterns  and  colours  and  shapes,  you  may  waste  a 
whole  day  and  then  pick  out  the  wrong  one. 
Now  I  'm  a  sensible  man,  and  I  've  got  one  opinion 
on  a  certain  subject;  and  you're  a  sensible  man, 
and  you've  got  another  opinion.  And  I  bring  in 
another  sensible  man,  and  he  says  that  I'm  right. 
And  you  bring  in  another  sensible  man,  and  he 
says  that  you're  right.  And  we  keep  on  bringing 
in  sensible  men.  What  happens  then?  If  we 
don't  take  care,  we  get  to  arguing  about  it,  same 
as  Joe  Tubbs  and  Bob  Poulter  did  the  other  day, 
when  we  went  to  have  a  bite  of  dinner  together. 
While  we  was  waiting  for  the  sausages  and 
mashed,  Bob  and  Joe  got  to  arguing  about  the 
best  way  to  feed  bull-pups.  Well,  I've  got  my 
own  opinion  about  feeding  bull-pups,  but  I  said 
nothing.    They  kept  on  arguing,  and  last  of  all, 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  85 

when  they'd  nearly  come  to  blows,  Joe  turns 
round  to  me  and  he  says,  '  Solomon  Brown,  what 's 
the  best  grub  for  bull-pups?'  he  says.  '  'Struth 
Sol,  you've  wolfed  in  all  the  sausages!' 

' '  '  Have  I  ? '  I  says.  '  Bless  me  so  I  have !  The 
best  grub  for  bull-pups?  There's  nine  different 
ways  of  feeding  bull-pups.  It's  one  of  them  sub- 
jects as  sensible  men  can  hold  wrong  opinions 
about.  Have  you  ever  noticed,  Joe,'  I  says,  'what 
a  lot  of  subjects  there  are  as  sensible  men  can 
hold  wrong  opinions  about?' 

"  'That  ain't  the  point,'  he  says.  'The  point 
is  what  the  blazes  you  mean  by  wolfing  in  all  the 
sausages?'  " 

The  porter's  discourse  served  the  valuable  pur- 
pose of  giving  me  time  to  search  for  a  stable  foot- 
ing. After  several  dubious  experiments,  I  ven- 
tured to  trust  myself  to  the  caprices  of  the 
pavement,  and  to  my  great  satisfaction  I  gained 
the  opposite  side  of  the  road  without  any  more 
serious  mishap  than  a  few  stumbles,  and  an  invol- 
untary collision  with  a  policeman,  who  roughly 
pushed  me  aside,  and  sent  me  staggering  to  a 
convenient  lamp-post.  I  clung  to  it  while  I  tried 
further  adjustments  of  the  muscles  of  my  legs 
and  feet  to  the  pavement.  The  old  gentleman 
was  still  sitting  in  the  puddle.  He  gave  a  cordial 
salutation  or  a  wave  of  the  hand  to  each  passerby, 
and  continued  to  bear  his  misfortune  with  un- 
shaken   fortitude.      I    have    never   seen    greater 


86  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

cheerfulness  in  distress.  A  passing  water  cart 
showered  its  contents  on  his  bald  head  and  all 
over  his  clothes.  This,  while  it  increased  the 
depth  of  the  puddle  in  which  he  was  sitting, 
seemed  also  to  increase  his  optimistic  and  cour- 
ageous view  of  the  situation. 

Upon  looking  up  at  the  fagade  of  the  Theatre 
of  Ideas,  I  found  that  the  knowledge  which  I  had 
gained  within  of  its  general  drift  and  purpose, 
enabled  me  to  interpret  the  mottoes  that  decor- 
ated the  exterior.  These  were  not  in  some  foreign 
language,  as  I  had  previously  supposed,  but  were 
in  plain  English,  only  all  the  letters  were  turned 
upside  down,  and  were  tumbling  in  disorder. 
Thus  the  motto  over  the  main  entrance  ran  as 
follows : 

With  some  difficulty  I  deciphered  a  few  of  the 
more  prominent  inscriptions  that  sprawled  round 
the  frieze.  In  a  place  of  honour  to  the  right,  em- 
blazoned in  large  letters  of  gold  on  a  marble 
ground,  was  an  upside  down  text  that  I  made 
out  to  run: 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  87 

WHAT   IS   DUTY? 

Everybody  do  exactly  as  he  pleases 

On  the  opposite  side  shone  two  rows  of  dis- 
jointed letters,  formed  of  diamonds,  rubies,  and 
emeralds,  set  upon  a  plate  of  onyx.  After  some 
puzzling  I  found  the  top  line  read: 

WHAT    IS    HAPPINESS? 

I  hastened  to  interpret  the  lower  line.  With 
infinite  trouble  and  much  twisting  of  my  head  I 
discovered  the  answer  was: 

Ten  votes  for  everybody. 

The  Director  of  the  Theatre  of  Ideas  happened 
to  be  passing  to  his  home  at  the  moment  when  I 
had  succeeded  in  mastering  the  text.  I  hailed 
him,  and  expressed  my  delight  that  he  had  found 
an  answer  to  the  maddening  conundrum  that 
had  baffled  the  hopes  and  wasted  the  energies  of 
the  human  race  through  the  fruitless  centuries. 
I  asked  him  how  they  had  hit  upon  this  simple 
solution,  which  only  needed  to  be  stated  to  com- 
mand universal  assent.  He  said  that  like  all  the 
other  great  Ideas  that  illumined  their  teaching, 


88  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

they  had  got  it  out  of  their  own  heads.  They 
merely  shut  their  eyes,  and  the  Ideas  came  to 
them.  He  added  that  shutting  your  eyes  was 
the  great  secret  of  getting  profound  Ideas;  be- 
cause, if  one  kept  one's  eyes  open,  facts  were 
almost  sure  to  intrude  and  disturb  the  engender- 
ing of  the  Idea.  I  thereupon  shut  my  own  eyes, 
and  immediately  there  floated  before  me  a  mil- 
lennium of  unspeakable  blessedness  for  everybody, 
to  be  secured  by  the  simple  process  of  ten  pilgrim- 
ages to  the  ballot  box.  For  the  Director  explained 
that  in  order  to  give  full  effect  to  their  Idea,  no 
voter  would  be  allowed  to  cast  more  than  one 
vote  at  a  time.  This  would  give  him  the  pleasure 
of  visiting  the  ballot  box  ten  times  on  each  elec- 
tion day. 

"You  do  not  exclude  women  and  children,  I 
hope,"  was  my  earnest  suggestion  to  him. 

"We  exclude  no  one,"  he  replied. 

"And  surely  you  will  admit  our  idiots,  and  all 
the  rapidly  increasing  legions  of  the  feeble-mind- 
ed and  the  imbecile.  It  would  be  a  monstrous 
injustice  to  shut  out  these  poor  creatures  from 
happiness,  when  it  can  be  so  easily  showered 
upon  them." 

He  heartily  concurred ;  indeed,  I  gathered  that 
he  looked  upon  the  enlargement  of  the  voting 
power  of  the  masses  as  a  timely  correction  by 
human  wisdom  of  the  cruel  blunder  of  Nature 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  89 

in  creating  such  a  large  proportion  of  imbeciles 
among  our  population. 

The  tighter  I  shut  my  eyes,  the  more  convinced 
I  became  of  the  beneficence  of  the  whole  scheme. 
I  was  suddenly  inflamed  with  a  desire  to  enlarge 
its  scope. 

"Couldn't  you  make  it  twenty  votes  for  every- 
body," I  urged,  "and  so  double  the  sum  of  hu- 
man happiness  at  a  single  stroke?" 

He  answered  me  rather  churlishly,  I  thought. 

"The  man,  woman,  child,  or  idiot  who  cannot 
be  happy  with  ten  votes  deserves  to  be  miser- 
able." And  with  this  frowning  retort  he  strode 
away. 

Thus  do  men,  by  their  blindness  to  the  logical 
development  of  their  own  Ideas,  for  ever  shut  the 
gates  of  happiness  upon  their  kind. 

As  I  clung  to  the  lamp-post,  and  gradually 
accommodated  myself  to  the  gradually  lessening 
movement  of  the  pavement,  my  eyes  lighted  upon 
another  inscription,  which  I  slowly  succeeded  in 
rendering  as  follows: 

WHAT    IS    ART? 

Something.     Anything.     Everything. 

A  flood  of  illumination  poured  upon  me  as  I 
gradually  seized  upon  the  meaning  of  this  motto. 
I  had  carefully  read  five  hundred  and  nineteen 


90  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

books  upon  art,  without  getting  any  clearer  no- 
tion about  it  than  that  it  was  some  inscrutable 
absurdity,  which  men  talked  about  when  they 
wished  to  proclaim  their  superior  culture  to  their 
neighbours.  But,  as  I  dwelt  upon  this  inscription, 
art  for  the  first  time  became  a  reality  to  me.  I 
stood  gazing  in  ecstasy  at  the  mere  letters  of  the 
device.  I  could  have  knelt  and  kissed  the  feet  of 
the  authors  of  this  sublime  intuition.  Its  few 
plain,  simple  words  opened  new  worlds  of  ravish- 
ing beauty  to  every  member  of  our  democracy. 

"God  be  praised  for  this  formula!"  I  ex- 
claimed in  a  kind  of  religious  fervor.  "I  can 
now  equally  enjoy  a  portrait  by  Velasquez,  the 
latest  diagrammatic  chimera  of  the  Post  Impres- 
sionist, and  the  coloured  chalk  designs  of  the 
pavement  artist.  They  are  all  equally  inspired, 
equally  beautiful.  This  enables  me  to  do  justice 
to  our  Harum-scarum  and  Pentonville-omnibus 
dramatists,  and  shows  them  to  me  in  their  right- 
ful place  by  the  side  of  Shakespeare  and  Moliere. 
Now  I  can  walk  down  Tottenham  Court  Road 
or  Broadway  with  a  heart  full  of  joy  in  the  fact 
that  every  tradesman  is  an  artist  by  divine  right 
of  his  calling." 

By  this  time  the  buzzing  in  my  ears  had  sub- 
sided, and,  upon  letting  go  my  hold  of  the  lamp- 
post, I  found  that  I  was  able,  without  much  diffi- 
culty, to  walk  across  the  large  green  in  front  of 
the  Theatre  of  Ideas.     Upon  turning  to  look  at 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  91 

the  building,  I  made  the  curious  discovery  that 
it  was  standing  absolutely  still,  while  the  earth 
was  gently  and  equably,  but  irresistibly  moving 
round  it.  And  by  the  time  I  had  reached  the 
other  end  of  the  green,  I  had  perfectly  adjusted 
myself  to  the  earth's  motion,  which  was  indeed 
none  other  than  its  ancient  secular  revolution 
upon  its  own  axis.  Before  I  turned  down  the 
street  to  my  home,  I  made  a  bow  of  profound  re- 
spect to  the  Theatre  of  Ideas,  for  it  had  a  most 
imposing  outside. 

On  passing  through  a  side  street,  I  came  to  a 
shop  which  I  had  often  noticed  before,  without 
perceiving  that  it  was  kept  by  an  artist,  and  that 
all  the  articles  exposed  for  sale  were  works  of 
art.  But  now,  illumined  by  my  new  Idea  as  to 
the  reality  and  universality  of  art,  I  saw  every- 
thing with  new  eyes.  I  went  in  and  bought  an 
exquisitely  shaped  slop-pail,  which  was  orna- 
mented with  a  flower-like  design,  and  was  ticket- 
ed "Artistic,  six-pence-three-farthings."  I  am 
not  one  of  those  who  deny  the  meed  of  praise 
or  cash  to  an  artist,  so  I  insisted  upon  paying 
him  its  full  value  of  sevenpence.  I  should  have 
liked  to  retain  it  as  an  ornament  to  my  own 
home ;  but  a  new  masterpiece  of  the  Pentonville- 
omnibus  school  of  drama  being  then  announced, 
I  conquered  my  natural  reluctance  to  part  from 
this  work  of  art,  and  I  sent  it  to  the  management 
of  the  theatre  with  my  compliments,  and  a  hope 


92  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

that  it  might  form  an  ornamental,  if  not  a  useful, 
part  of  the  mise  en  scene.  The  manager  sent  me 
back  an  extravagant  letter  of  thanks,  gratefully 
accepting  the  slop-pail,  and  saying  that,  welcome 
as  it  was  as  an  ornament,  it  would  be  yet  more  wel- 
come as  a  utility  in  his  new  piece.  He  added  that 
he  had  never  seen  a  chaster  slop-pail,  or  one  that 
was  more  likely  to  have  a  great  moral  effect  on 
playgoers.  I  am  proud  to  say  that  it  is  the  nightly 
admiration  of  the  few  discerning  people  who  at- 
tend that  theatre,  and  that  it  is  entirely  in  keep- 
ing with  the  personages  and  milieu  of  the  play. 

Upon  arriving  home  with  my  new  treasure,  I 
learned  that  the  collector  had  called  for  the  Edu- 
cation Rate,  and,  after  waiting  for  some  time,  had 
left  with  threats  of  prosecution.  The  next  morn- 
ing I  received  a  summons  to  attend  the  court  as  a 
defaulter.  The  case  was  clearly  proved  against 
me,  and  the  magistrate  administered  a  severe  rep- 
rimand. He  said  that,  in  this  wonderful  age, 
any  man  who  refused  or  neglected  to  contribute 
to  the  spread  of  Ideas  among  the  masses,  de- 
served to  be  held  up  to  public  reprobation  as  a 
bad  citizen.     He  fined  me  Five  Pounds. 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  93 


Postscript 

For  some  time  after  my  visit  to  the  Theatre  of 
Ideas,  I  noticed  that  a  feeling  of  dizziness  and  a 
cloud  of  mental  obscuration  came  over  me,  when- 
ever I  approached  its  quarters.  I  therefore 
judged  it  better  to  avoid  that  neighbourhood.  Af- 
ter a  lapse  of  some  weeks,  I  found  myself  one 
morning  in  a  street  that  led  up  to  that  side  of 
the  building  on  which  was  situated  the  Sanctu- 
ary of  Perpetual  Peace.  I  was  warned  by  a  slight 
buzzing  in  the  ears  and  an  uneasy  sensation  in 
the  pit  of  the  stomach,  that  I  had  unconsciously 
strayed  within  the  sphere  of  influence  of  the 
Theatre  of  Ideas.  Instinctively  I  began  a  hur- 
ried retreat.  But,  on  reflection,  I  felt  that  it  was 
cowardly  to  run  away,  as  this  was  indeed  nothing 
but  an  acknowledgment  of  the  weakness  of  my 
own  mental  and  digestive  powers.  I  paused,  sum- 
moned all  my  resolution,  turned  right-about-face, 
and  boldly  marched  up  to  the  building.  I  gained 
confidence  as  I  went  along,  and  determined  that 
for  the  future  I  would  accommodate  my  move- 
ments to  the  local  disturbances,  whenever  I  vis- 
ited those  parts.  By  the  time  I  reached  the 
Theatre  of  Ideas  I  had  acquired  my  normal  self- 
possession. 

As  I  came  in  full  view  of  that  side  of  the  build- 
ing, I  saw  to  my  great  surprise  that  three  com- 


94  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

parries  of  soldiers  had  planted  each  a  large  can- 
non on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  The 
mouths  of  the  cannons  were  pointed  full  at  three 
windows  of  the  lower  story.  I  recognized  these 
three  windows  as  those  which  looked  out  from 
the  large  room  of  the  Sanctuary  of  Perpetual 
Peace.  Large  stores  of  ammunition  and  shells 
were  deposited  by  the  sides  of  the  great  guns.  I 
hurried  up,  and  to  my  horror  I  heard  the  com- 
manding officer  in  charge  of  the  large  central 
cannon  giving  orders  to  load  it.  I  demanded 
from  one  of  his  lieutenants  what  was  taking 
place.  He  replied  that  the  site  of  the  Theatre 
of  Ideas  was  a  very  pleasant  and  valuable  one, 
and  that  it  was  proposed  to  batter  down  the  pres- 
ent edifice  and  build  in  its  place  three  comfort- 
able mansions,  for  the  officers  of  the  guns  re- 
spectively. There  would  then  be  room  for  a 
church  in  the  corner  facing  the  green.  He  said 
the  continued  presence  of  the  cannons  would 
ensure  the  unimpeachable  orthodoxy  of  the 
church.  I  began  to  remonstrate  with  him,  but  he 
thrust  me  out  of  the  way,  and  gave  directions 
to  his  men  to  load  the  cannon.  The  other  com- 
panies of  soldiers  were  lifting  large  shells 
to  charge  their  guns.  I  glanced  all  round  at 
the  faces  of  the  men  and  officers,  and  be- 
came convinced  that  they  were  in  deadly  ear- 
nest. 
An  instinct  of  humanity  seized  me.    I  rushed 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  95 

round  to  the  front  of  the  building,  ran  up  the 
marble  steps,  past  the  jovial,  red-faced  porter 
who  was  asleep  on  his  bench,  and  entered  the 
main  hall.  The  performances  on  the  floor  were 
much  of  the  same  character  as  those  which  had 
taken  place  on  my  previous  visit.  In  place,  how- 
ever, of  the  single  rocking-horse  and  its  rider, 
there  were  now  three  rocking-horses,  whose  riders 
were  all  bravely  stabbing  away  at  invisible  foes, 
while  each  of  them  had  gathered  a  crowd  of  ad- 
miring and  applauding  onlookers.  The  drums 
were  beating,  and  the  trumpets  were  blaring.  In 
the  side  alley  the  stalwarts  were  shouting  "Vic- 
tory," and  butting  furiously  at  the  brick  wall. 
The  only  other  noticeable  change  was  in  the 
group  of  statues.  Shakespeare  had  cracked,  and 
was  lying  in  pieces  on  the  floor.  The  modern 
statues  were  tilted  at  different  angles,  each  in  his 
own  particular  pose ;  while  in  the  centre  of  them 
was  the  blatant  figure  of  the  Polyfadistic  Impos- 
siblist,  placed  exactly  upside  down.  His  out- 
stretched legs,  rather  widely  apart,  reached  up- 
wards towards  the  ceiling,  in  an  attitude  of  mis- 
chievous provocation,  one  towards  heaven,  and  the 
other  towards  the  earth.  A  knot  of  admirers  were 
gaping  up  at  him. 

"His  very  boots  talk!"  I  heard  one  of  them 
enthusiastically  exclaim,  as  I  hurried  by  on  my 
errand  of  warning  to  the  Sanctuary  of  Perpetual 
Peace.    Panting  with  haste  and  alarm,  I  entered 


96  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

its  door  without  ceremony.  A  wild  scrimmage  of 
loud  words  and  blows  was  taking  place  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Pugg  had  got  Poap  down  on 
the  floor,  and  was  kneeling  on  him,  pumping  all 
the  wind  out  of  him  by  a  bellows-like  movement  of 
his  knees  on  Poap 's  stomach,  and  knocking  Poap 's 
head  with  the  hard  corner  of  the  volume  "War 
Finally  Vanquished."  Meake  was  vainly  trying 
to  get  Pugg  off  Poap's  stomach. 

"We  all  think  alike,"  Meake  was  bleating. 
"We  all  agree  as  to  the  end.  We  only  differ  as 
to  the  means." 

I  pushed  my  way  to  them. 

"They're  going  to  blow  you  all  to  pieces!"  I 
shouted.  "Come  out  of  it!  Make  haste!  Look! 
Look!     They're  going  to  fire  on  you!" 

I  pointed  to  the  windows.  After  much  shout- 
ing and  shaking,  I  managed  to  get  them  to  listen 
to  me.  Pugg,  leaving  Poap  on  the  floor,  went  to 
the  middle  window  and  looked  out.  Meake  went 
to  the  window  on  the  left,  and  Poap,  getting  up 
from  the  floor,  recovered  his  wind,  and  went  to 
the  window  on  the  right. 

Meake  gazed  at  the  soldiers  and  cannon.  "It 
must  be  an  optical  illusion,"  he  said. 

I  assured  him  it  was  nothing  of  the  kind,  but 
that  they  were  real  soldiers  and  real  cannon. 
Meake  put  on  a  pair  of  spectacles  to  see  them 
more  clearly.  Pugg  lifted  up  the  centre  window, 
and  shook  his  fist  at  the  soldiers,  gesticulating 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  97 

violently  and  calling  out,  "Down  with  War! 
Root  it  out!" 

"Where's  my  tract,  'War — An  Economic  Pal- 
lacy'?"  Poap  called  out  to  his  pupils.  One  of 
them  brought  him  a  copy  of  the  tract. 

"I  cannot  think  they  mean  to  load  those  guns," 
said  Meake  complacently. 

I  told  him  that  by  this  time  the  guns  were 
already  loaded. 

"I'm  sure  they  can't  mean  to  let  them  off," 
said  Meake.  "They  all  seem  to  be  such  dear, 
nice,  gentle,  kind-looking  men." 

They  appeared  to  me  to  have  stern  and  brutal 
countenances,  and  to  be  villainously  determined. 

Pugg  continued  to  shake  his  fist  at  the  soldiers, 
threatening  to  root  them  out,  and  exterminate 
them  forthwith.    Poap  opened  his  window. 

"Listen  to  this,"  he  bawled  across  the  street. 
"I'll  have  you  to  know  that  War  is  an  Economic 
Fallacy." 

He  began  to  read  hi?>  tract  in  a  loud,  authori- 
tative tone. 

"I'll  go  out  and  talk  to  them,"  said  Meake, 
taking  off  his  spectacles,  and  making  for  the 
door. 

I  felt  that  I  had  sufficiently  done  my  duty  by 
warning  them,  and  that  it  would  be  advisable 
to  save  myself  while  there  was  time.  I  was  hur- 
rying tc  the  door 


98  THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS 

"Bang!"  came  from  outside.  And  then  an- 
other terrific, 

"Bang!" 

Part  of  the  front  wall  of  the  room  tumbled  in. 
I  had  a  momentary  vision  of  Pugg 's  headless  form 
in  the  middle  window.  It  continued  to  shake  its 
fist  and  gesticulate.  Poap  was  left  unscathed, 
and  went  on  expounding  the  Economic  Fallacy 
of  War,  puffing  out  great  quantities  of  wind. 
Meake  's  body  and  clothes  were  scattered  in  pieces 
about  the  place,  and  his  spectacles  dropped  close 
to  me.  At  the  first  explosion  I  fell  flat  upon  my 
face,  and  I  now  crawled  out  into  the  main  hall  as 
quickly  as  I  could.  The  greatest  consternation 
prevailed  in  the  Theatre  of  Ideas.  Its  parapher- 
nalia were  wrecked,  and  crowds  of  its  affrighted 
frequenters  were  hurrying  hither  and  thither  in 
aimless  confusion.  But  the  Polyfadistic  Impos- 
siblist  remained  unshaken  in  his  topsy-turvy  pos- 
ture, with  outstretched  legs  in  the  air,  impudently 
arraigning  everything  in  heaven  and  on  the  earth. 

Another  deafening  "Bang!"  came  from  out- 
side, as  I  got  upon  my  feet,  and  jostled  with  the 
panic-stricken  crowd  to  gain  the  exit.  The  dome 
of  the  place  cracked  and  opened,  and  the  great 
clock  fell  backward  into  pieces.  As  I  was  strug- 
gling to  get  out,  I  came  across  the  amiable  Direc- 
tor.   His  face  wore  a  look  of  woeful  dejection. 

"And  just  as  it  was  all  working  so  splen- 
didly!" he  pathetically  ejaculated. 


THE  THEATRE  OF  IDEAS  99 

The  crush  bore  me  past  him,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes I  found  myself  safely  outside  on  the  marble 
steps.  Another  and  yet  another  explosion  shook 
the  whole  edifice  as  I  descended  to  the  street. 
Fragments  of  the  mottoes  that  adorned  the  frieze 
came  clattering  down  about  our  feet.  I  picked 
up  some  of  these  broken  pieces.  To  my  astonish- 
ment I  found  that  the  scrolls  and  devices  on  the 
outside  of  the  building,  instead  of  being  of  gold 
and  marble  and  precious  stones,  as  I  had  sup- 
posed, were  the  flashiest  brummagem  imitations. 
The  mottoes  composing  the  texts,  "What  is 
Duty?"  and  "What  is  Happiness?"  were  of  the 
cheapest  tinsel ;  and  the  rubies  and  emeralds  were 
nothing  but  clumsily  cut  lumps  of  coarse  coloured 
glass.  I  have  kept  the  fragments  that  I  collected, 
and  I  can  show  them  to  anyone  who  questions  my 
word.  They  could  never  have  been  mistaken  for 
gold  and  precious  stones  if  they  had  not  been 
placed  on  the  imposing  facade  of  the  Theatre  of 
Ideas.  I  have  since  had  grave  doubts  about  the 
trappings  of  Pegasus,  and  the  gold  nails  on  the 
mane  of  Bucephalus. 

The  firing  now  became  more  frequent,  and  I 
hurried  across  the  green  to  escape  from  the  fall- 
ing masses  of  debris.  When  at  length  the  can- 
nonading ceases,  I  question  whether  much  will  re- 
main of  the  Theatre  of  Ideas. 


NOTE. — The  acting  rights  of  the  three  following  plays 
are  fully  protected  in  all  countries.  Legal  proceedings 
will  be  taken  against  anyone  who  attempts  to  infringe 
them.  Application  for  terms  for  professional  dramatic 
performances  in  America  and  Canada  should  be  ad- 
dressed to  The  American  Play  Company,  2Eolian 
Building,  33  West  42nd  St.,  New  York.  For  amateur 
performances  to  Messrs.  Samuel  French,  Playbrokers, 
West  38th  Street,  New  York. 


THE   GOAL, 
A   Dramatic  Fragment 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED 

Sir  Stephen  Famariss,  the  great  Engineer 
Daniel  Famariss,  his  son,  Engineer 
Sir  Lydden  Crane,  M.D. 
Adams,  Sir  Stephen's  Butler 
Peggie  Lovel 
Nurse  Clandon 

Scene:     Sir  Stephen's  bedroom  in  Belgravia. 
Time:    1897. 


THE   GOAL 

Scene  :  The  dressing  room  of  Sir  Stephen  Famariss, 
Belgrave  Square.  A  very  richly  furnished  apart- 
ment, with  every  evidence  of  wealth  and  luxury. 
Up  stage  right  an  archway,  set  diagonally,  shows 
a  bedroom  beyond  with  foot  of  brass  bedstead 
placed  sideways  to  audience.  The  bedroom  is  dimly 
lighted.  A  large  bow-window,  rather  deeply  re- 
cessed, runs  along  the  left  at  bach,  and  looks 
across  a  courtyard  to  another  house,  whose  win- 
dows are  brilliantly  lighted.  Figures  dancing  are 
seen  moving  across  the  windows  in  accordance  with 
indications  given  through  the  play.  Between  arch- 
way and  window  a  large  handsome  bureau.  A  door 
left  down  stage.  Down  stage  right,  fireplace  with 
fire  burning.  A  mirror  over  fireplace.  A  large 
comfortable  sofa  down  stage  right.  A  table  left 
of  sofa  near  centre  of  stage,  with  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne and  glasses  on  it.  Another  table  up  stage 
left  above  door.  Upon  it  medicine  bottles,  spirit 
lamp,  and  other  paraphernalia  of  a  sick  room.  A 
large  pier  looking-glass  up  stage  above  sofa.  Other 
furniture  as  required,  all  indicating  great  wealth 
and  comfort.  Time,  about  ten  on  an  April  evening. 
Discover  on  sofa,  asleep,  Sir  Stephen  Famariss. 
A  rug  is  thrown  over  him,  and  his  head  is  buried 
in  a  jrillow,  so  that  nothing  is  seen  of  him  but  a 

103 


104  THE  GOAL 

figure  under  the  rug.  Nurse  Clandon,  in  nurse's 
costume,  about  thirty,  is  seated  in  chair  at  table, 
reading.  The  door,  left,  is  very  softly  opened,  and 
Sir  Lydden  Crane  enters,  a  little,  dry,  shrewd, 
wizened  old  man  about  seventy,  with  manners  of  a 
London  physician.  Nurse  rises  and  puts  down  her 
book. 

Crane.  Well?    How  has  he  been  all  the  afternoon1? 

Nurse.  Just  as  usual.  He  won't  keep  quiet.  About 
an  hour  ago  he  fell  asleep. 

[Pointing  to  Sir  Stephen. 

Crane.  Mr.  Daniel  Famariss  has  not  arrived  ? 

Nurse.  No.  He  sent  another  telegram  for  him  this 
evening.  And  he  keeps  on  asking  for  the  evening 
papers. 

Crane.  Well? 

Nurse.  I've  kept  them  from  him.  They  all  have  long 
accounts  of  his  illness.  [Taking  an  evening  paper  from 
under  the  table  cover,  giving  it  to  Crane.]     Look! 

Crane.  [Taking  paper,  reading.]  "Sir  Stephen  Fa- 
mariss, the  great  engineer,  is  dying "    Hum ! 

[A  very  gentle  knock  is  heard  at  door  left. 
Nurse  goes  to  it,  opens  it.  Adams  comes 
in  a  step. 

Adams.  I  beg  pardon.  Mrs.  Lovel  has  sent  in  to  ask 
how  Sir  Stephen  is;  and  to  say  that  she's  very  sorry 
the  ballroom  is  so  near  his  bedroom;  and  if  the  noise 
of  the  ball  will  upset  Sir  Stephen,  she'll  be  very  pleased 
to  put  it  off,  and  send  her  guests  away? 

Nurse.  What  do  you  think,  Sir  Lydden? 

Crane.  All  excitement  is  very  dangerous  for  Sir 
Stephen.    The  next  attack  may  be  fatal.    Will  you  give 


THE  GOAL  105 

my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Lovel,  and  say  that  since  she 
is  so  kind  I  will  beg  her  to  postpone  the  ball?  [Sir  Ste- 
phen stirs,  throws  off  the  quilt.  He  is  in  a  rich  dress- 
ing-gown. A  wiry,  handsome,  very  intellectual-looking 
man  about  seventy-five ;  well-seasoned,  vigorous  frame; 
pale,  sharp,  strong  features,  showing  signs  of  great  re- 
cent pain. 

Sir  S.  Will  you  give  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Lovel, 
and  say  that  since  she  is  so  kind  I  will  beg  her  to  do 
nothing  of  the  kind.  What  rubbish,  Crane !  Because  I 
happen  to  be  dying,  to  stop  the  innocent  pleasure  of  a 
couple  of  hundred  young  people !  Thank  Mrs.  Lovel 
very  much,  Adams,  for  sending  in,  and  say  that  I'm 
not  at  all  sure  that  I  shall  die  to-night ;  but  that  if  I  do, 
her  dancing  won't  in  the  least  interfere  with  my  dying, 
and  I  hope  she  won't  allow  my  dying  to  interfere  with 
her  dancing.  I  very  much  wish  the  ball  to  take  place. 
[Very  imperiously.]  It's  not  to  be  put  off!  You  un- 
derstand? 

Adams.  Yes,  Sir  Stephen.  [Going. 

Sir  S.  And,  Adams,  give  my  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Lovel,  and  say  that  if  she  doesn't  mind,  I  should  like  to 
see  Miss  Lovel  in  her  ball  dress  for  a  moment  before 
the  ball.  Say  that  I'm  quite  presentable,  and  I  won't 
frighten  Miss  Lovel.  [Exit  Adams. 

Sir  S.  Well,  Crane,  am  I  going  off  this  time? 

Crane.  This  last  attack  coming  so  quickly  after  the 
other  is  very  alarming  and — very  dangerous. 

Sir  S.  Yes,  but  am  I  going  to  pull  through  again,  or 
must  I  put  up  the  shutters? 

Crane.  Well — well 

Sir  S.  [Seeing  paper  on  table  where  Crane  has  put 


106  THE  GOAL 

it.]    Is  that  to-night's  paper?    [No  reply.]     Give  it  to 
me. 

Crane.  [Deprecatingly.]  Famariss 

Sir  S.  Give  it  to  me. 

[Crake  gives  it  to  him  reluctantly. 

Sir  S.  [Beading  from  paper.]  "Alarming  illness  of 
Sir  Stephen  Famariss.  Angina  Pectoris.  Fatal  symp- 
toms.    Sir  Stephen  Famariss,  the  great  engineer,  is 

dying "    There's  nothing  like  making  sure  of  your 

facts. 

Crane.  Too  sure! 

Sir  S.  [Drily.]  So  I  think.  What  do  you  say?  How 
long  am  I  going  to  live? 


Crane.  Well ■ 

Sir  S.  Come  out  with  it,  old  friend.  I'm  not  afraid 
to  hear. 

Crane.  With  the  greatest  care,  I  see  no  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  live  some  weeks — or  months. 

Sir  S.  Shall  I  live  long  enough  to  carry  out  my  Mil- 
ford  Haven  scheme?    Tell  me  the  truth. 

Crane.  No.    You  certainly  won't. 

Sir  S.  [Shows  intense  disappointment.]  You're 
sure? 

Crane.  I'm  sure. 

Sir  S.  But  I  shall  live  long  enough  to  start  it,  to  put 
it  into  other  hands,  into  my  son's  hands — if  the  rebel- 
lious fool  will  only  learn  wisdom  and  make  it  up  with 
me  before  I  die.    I  shall  live  long  enough  for  that  ? 

Crane.  No.    I  fear  not. 

Sir  S.  [Going  to  bureau.]  But  I've  got  a  third  of  it 
on  paper.  [Taking  out  plans.]  I've  kept  it  here.  I've 
worked  at  it  when  I  couldn't  sleep.    If  I  can  last  out 


THE  GOAL  107 

another  six  months,  I  can  do  it.  Come,  Crane,  don't  be 
stingy.    Give  me  another  six  months!     Eh? 

Crane.  Famariss,  you  won't  last  six  months  even 
with  the  greatest  care.    You  may  not  last  six  weeks 

Sir  S.  Nor  six  days? 

Crane.  Nor  six  days. 

Sir  S.  Nor  six  hours? 

Crane.  Oh ! 

Sir  S.  Nor  six  hours.     Thank  you.    I'm  prepared. 

Crane.  Your  son  hasn't  come  yet? 

Sir  S.  No.  I've  telegraphed  him  twice — and  my 
terms. 

Crane.  Is  it  worth  while — of  course,  you  know 
best — is  it  worth  while  to  stick  out  for  terms  when ? 

Sir  S.  When  one  is  in  face  of  death.  Yes — on  a 
matter  of  principle.  If  Dan  comes  here,  he  comes  on 
my  terms.  I'll  keep  my  word;  I  won't  set  eyes  on  him 
— he  shan't  pass  that  door  until  he  owns  he  was  wrong. 

Crane.  But 

Sir  S.  [Getting  excited.]  But  he  was  wrong.  He 
was  wrong,  and  no  power  on  earth  shall  make  me 

Crane.  [Soothing  him.]  Hush!  If  he  does  come, 
you  must  avoid  all  excitement  in  meeting  him.  Your 
only  chance  of  prolonging  your  life  is  to  keep  abso- 
lutely quiet.    You  must  lay  up  all  day 

Sir  S.  Lay  up  all  day!    Don't  talk  nonsense  1 

Crane.  If  you  don't 

Sir  S.  If  I  don't 

Crane.  You  may  die  at  any  moment. 

Sir  S.  But  if  I  do,  I'm  dead  already.  No,  Crane,  I'll 
live  to  my  last  moment,  whenever  it  comes.  When  I  do 
take  to  my  bed,  I'll  take  to  it  once  for  all,  in  the  church- 
yard, beside  my  Peggie!     [Very  softly,  very  tenderly, 


108  THE  GOAL 

half  to  himself.']  My  Peggie!  My  Peggie!  If  I  do 
go  off,  I  shall  see  her  again,  I  suppose — if  it  isn't  all 
moonshine !  Open  the  window,  Nurse !  It's  getting  hot 
here!  [The  Nurse  opens  window.']  Open  that  cham- 
pagne, Crane,  and  pour  yourself  out  a  glass,  and  pour 
me  out  a  glass.  My  Peggie !  My  Peggie !  I  wonder  if 
it  is  all  moonshine! 

[The  musicians  in  the  ballroom  opposite  begin 
to  tune  up  their  fiddles.     Nurse  comes 
down. 
Sir  S.  That's  right!     Tune  up!     Tune  up!     And 
Peggie  Lovel  promised  me  the  first  dance !    Tune  up ! 

Nurse.  You  must  keep  quiet 

Sir  S.  [Pettishly.]  Run  away!    Run  away! 

[Crane  makes  Nurse  a  sign,  and  she  goes  off 

into    bedroom.      Crane    has    opened   the 

champagne  and  poured  out  two  glasses. 

He  brings  one  to  Sir  Stephen. 

Sir  S.  It's  the  eighty-four  Saint  Marceaux.     I've 

left  you  half  what's  left  of  this,  Crane,  and  I've  left 

my  mule  of  a  boy  the  other  half.     He's  my  heir.     I 

won't  see  him;  no,  not  if  I 

Crane.  Hush!    Hush! 

Sir  S.  I  won't  see  him  unless  he  submits.  But  I've 
left  him  every  penny,  except  what  goes  to  charities  and 
churches.  It's  very  puzzling  to  know  what  to  do  with 
one's  money,  Crane.  I've  left  a  heap  to  charities,  and 
I've  squared  all  the  churches.  I  hope  it  won't  do  much 
harm.  [A  little  chuckle.]  There's  one  thing  I  regret 
in  dying,  Crane:   I  shan't  be  able  to  hear  my  funeral 

sermons.    But  you  will 

Crane.  Don't  make  too  sure.    I  may  go  off  first ;  but 


THE  GOAL  109 

if  I  am  doomed,  I  hope  the  oratory  will  be  of  as  good 
a  vintage  as  this. 

Sir  S.  It  ought  to  be,  considering  what  I've  left 
them  all.  Give  them  a  hint,  Crane,  not  to  whitewash 
my  sepulchre  with  any  lying  cant.  Don't  let  them 
make  a  plaster-of-Paris  saint  of  me !  I  won't  have  it ! 
I  won't  have  it!  I've  been  a  man,  and  never  less  than 
a  man.  I've  never  refused  to  do  the  work  that  came  in 
my  way,  and,  thank  God,  I've  never  refused  to  taste  a 
pleasure.  And  I've  had  a  rare  good  time  in  this  rare 
good  world.    I  wish  I'd  got  to  live  it  all  over  again ! 

Crane.  You  do? 

Sir  S.  Yes;  every  moment  of  it,  good  and  evil,  pleas- 
ure and  pain,  love  and  work,  success  and  failure,  youth 
and  age,  I'd  fill  the  cup  again,  and  I'd  drain  it  to  the 
dregs  if  I  could.    You  wouldn't'? 

Crane.  No.    Once  is  enough  for  me. 

Sir  S.  You  see,  Crane,  before  starting  in  life,  I  took 
the  one  great  step  to  secure  success  and  happiness. 

Crane.  What's  that? 

Sir  S.  I  made  an  excellent  choice  of  my  father  and 
mother.  Not  rich.  Not  aristocratic.  But  a  good, 
sound,  healthy  stock  on  both  sides.  What's  the  cause 
of  all  the  weak,  snivelling  pessimism  we  hear?  What's 
the  cause  of  nine-tenths  of  the  misery  around  us — 
ruined  lives;  shattered  health;  physical,  moral,  intellec- 
tual beggary?    What's  the  cause  of  doctors'  bills? 

Crane.  Well,  what  is? 

Sir  S.  Men  and  women  exercise  no  care  in  choosing 
their  fathers  and  mothers.  You  doctors  know  it !  You 
doctors  know  it !  Once  choose  your  father  and  mother 
wisely,  and  you  can  play  all  sorts  of  tricks  with  your 


110  THE  GOAL 

constitution.    You  can  drink  your  half  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne at  seventy-five  and  enjoy  it !    Another  glass ! 

Crane.  No,  I  must  be  going!  [Rising.]  And  [tap- 
ping hottle]  you  mustn't  take  any  more. 

Sir  S.  Don't  talk  nonsense!  Sit  down!  Sit  down! 
Another  glass!  Hobnob,  man;  hobnob!  Life's  but  a 
span !    Why,  this  may  be  the  last  time,  eh? 

Crake.  Any  time  may  be  the  last  time.  Any  moment 
may  bo  the  last  moment. 

Sir  S.  Well,  then,  let's  enjoy  the  last  moment!  I 
tell  you,  Crane,  I'm  ready.  All  my  affairs  are  in  per- 
fect order.  I  should  have  liked  to  finish  that  Milford 
Haven  scheme;  but  if  it  isn't  to  be— [deep  sigh] — 
Hobnob,  man ;  hobnob ! 

Crane.  What  a  lovely  wine ! 

Sir  S.  Isn't  it?  I  remember  Goethe  says  that  the 
man  who  drinks  wine  is  damned,  but  the  man  who 
drinks  bad  wine  is  doubly  damned.  Pray  God  you  and 
I  may  be  only  damned  once,  Crane. 

Crane.  Oh,  that's  past  praying  for — in  my  case ! 

Sir  S.  Eighty-four !  I  was  boring  a  hole  through  the 
Rockies  that  summer — ah,  Crane,  what  glorious  sum- 
mers I've  had ! — seventy-five  glorious  golden  summers — 
and  now — Hobnob,  man ;  hobnob !  You've  had  a  good 
innings,  too,  Crane. 

Crane.  Hum!  Pretty  fair.  I  eat  well,  drink  well, 
sleep  well,  get  my  early  morning  jog  in  the  Park  and 
enjoy  it,  get  my  two  months  on  the  moors,  and  enjoy 
them.  I  feel  as  fit  to-day  as  I  did  thirty  years  ago. 
There's  only  one  pleasure  that  fails  me — [with  a 
grimace  at  Sir  Stephen] — Gone!    Gone!    Gone! 

Sir  S.  Don't  fret  about  that !  We  thought  it  a  pleas- 
ure, old  crony,  while  it  lasted.    Now  it's  gone,  let's  call 


THE  GOAL  111 

it  a  plague  and  a  sin,  and  thank  God  for  giving  us  a 
little  peace  in  our  old  age.  Ah,  dear,  dear,  what  a 
havoc  women  have  made  of  the  best  half  of  my  life; 
but — [brightening] — I've  left  some  good  work  behind 
me,  in  spite  of  the  hussies!  And,  thank  Heaven,  my 
throat  has  held  out  to  the  last.  [Drinking. 

Crake.  [Drinking.]  And  mine ! 

Sir  S.  Crane,  what  was  that  joke  that  came  up  at 
poor  Farley's  funeral? 

Crane.  Joke? 

Sir  S.  Don't  you  remember  while  we  were  waiting 
for  them  to  bring  dear  old  Farley  downstairs,  Maidment 
began  telling  that  story  about  the  geese  and  the  Scotch- 
boy 

Crane.  Yes,  yes;  to  be  sure! 

[Beginning  to  laugh. 

Sir  S.  And  just  as  we  were  enjoying  the  joke,  we 
suddenly  remembered  where  we  were,  and  you  pulled 
us  up,  and  spoilt  the  joke! 

Crane.  Yes,  yes,  I  remember. 

Sir  S.  Crane,  if  Maidment  tells  that  story  at  my 
funeral,  don't  pull  him  up 

Crane.  Eh? 

Sir  S.  It's  a  good  joke,  man !  Don't  waste  it !  Have 
your  laugh  out,  and  say  from  me  that,  other  conditions 
being  favourable,  I'm  enjoying  it  as  heartily  as  any  of 
you!    You  will,  eh?    You  will? 

Crane.  Yes,  I  will!    I  will! 

[They  both  laugh  a  little.    Adams  opens  door 
left,  and  comes  in  a  step. 

Adams.  Miss  Lovel  has  come,  Sir  Stephen. 

Sir  S.  Show  her  in,  Adams.  [Exit  Adams. 

Crane.  I  must  be  going. 


112  THE  GOAL 

[Reenter  Adams,  showing  in  Peggie  Lovel,  a 
debutante   of  eighteen,  in  her  first  ball 
dress?  radiant,  excited,  beautifully  dressed, 
a  vision  of  girlish  loveliness.   She  is  frivo- 
lous and  self-conscious,  and  full  of  little 
airs  and  graces,  constantly  glancing  at 
herself  in  the  two  mirrors. 
Adams.  [ Announcing.]  Miss  Lovel.        [Exit  Adams. 
Sir  S.  Come  in,  Peggie.    I  mustn't  call  you  Peggie 
any  more.    Come  in,  Miss  Lovel. 

Peggie.  Mamma  said  you  would  like  to  see  me  for  a 
minute  before  the  ball ! 
Sir  S.  If  you  don't  mind. 

Peggie.  How  d'ye  do,  Sir  Lydden?     [Shaking  hands. 
Crane.  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Lovel?    Good  night,  Sir 
Stephen.  [Holding  out  hand. 

Sir  S.  Don't  go,  old  chum. 

[Taking  his  hand,  retaining  it,  keeping  Crane. 
Crane.  I  must.  [Taking  out  watch.]  I  have  a  con- 
sultation at  eleven. 

Sir  S.  [Piteously.]  Don't  go,  old  chum. 
Crane.  It's  really  pressing.    It's  Lord  Albert  Swale. 
He  won't  last  till  the  morning. 

Sir  S.  Don't  go.  I  may  be  meeting  him  soon,  and  I'll 
make  your  apologies.  [Very  piteously.]  Don't  go,  old 
chum ! 

Crane.  I  must.  [Nurse  enters  from  bedroom.] 
Nurse,  I  want  a  word  with  you  downstairs.  [Nurse 
crosses  to  left,  and  exit.]  [To  Sir  S.]  I'll  look  in,  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning. 

Sra  S.  Do.   You'll  find  me — at  home. 
Crane.  Good  night.    Good  night,  Miss  Lovel. 
Peggie.  Good  night,  Sir  Lydden. 


THE  GOAL  113 

Crane.  [In  a  low  tone  to  Peggie.]  You  mustn't  stay 
Ion?,  and  you  mustn't  let  Sir  Stephen  excite  himself. 
[To  Sir  S.]  I'd  rather  see  you  in  bed 

Sir  S.  [Very  impatiently.]  Tut!  Tut!  Tut!  I  won't 
be  buried  before  I'm  dead.  [Rather  curtly.]  Good 
night.  [Crane  waits. 

Sir  S.  [Imperiously.']  Good  night!  [Crane  is  go- 
ing.] And,  Crane,  remember — no  whitewash  on  my 
sepulchre!  [Exit  Crane,  left. 

[Peggie  meantime  has  taken  off  her  cloalc.  .  I  // 
through  she  is  eager  and  excited,  glances 
at  herself  in  the  glasses  very  often. 

Peggie.  I'm  so  sorry  you're  ill,  Sir  Stephen. 

Sir  S.  I'm  not  ill,  my  deai\  The  old  machine  seems 
just  as  strong  and  tough  as  ever,  only — it's  gone 
"crack"  in  a  weak  place.  Well,  I've  knocked  it  about 
all  over  the  world  for  seventy-five  years,  and  if  it 
hadn't  gone  crack  in  one  place,  I  suppose  it  would  in 
another.  Never  mind  me.  Let's  talk  about  you.  Go 
and  stand  there,  and  let  me  look  at  you. 

Peggie.  [Displaying  her  dress.]  Do  you  like  me ?  Do 
you  like  my  dress? 

Sir  S.  It's  a  triumph! 

Peggie.  [Chattering  on.]  You  can't  imagine  what 
trouble  mamma  and  I  have  taken  over  it.  Long 
sleeves  are  coming  in  for  evening  wear.  So  I  had  long 
sleeves  at  first.  I  was  all  sleeves.  So  I  had  them 
taken  out  and  short  sleeves  put  in.  The  dressmaker 
made  a  horrible  muddle  of  them.  So  we  tried  loner 
sleeves  again.    I  looked  a  perfect  flight! 

Sir  S.  I  won't  believe  it. 

Peggie.  Yes,  I  did,  I  assure  you.  So  at  the  last  mo- 
ment I  had  the  long  sleeves  taken  out  and  the  short 


114  THE  GOAL 

sleeves  dodged  up  with  lace.  Which  do  you  like  best? 
Long  sleeves  or  short  sleeves  ? 

Sir  S.  Long  sleeves  for  ugly  arms — short  sleeves  for 
beautiful  arms! 

Peggie.  [Frowning  at  him  and  shaking  her  head.] 
Ah !  What  do  you  think  of  the  bodice? 

Sir  S.  Enchanting! 

Peggie.  It  is  rather  neat,  isn't  it? 

Sir  S.  Neat  ?    I  should  call  it  gorgeous ! 

Peggie.  Oh,  you  must  see  the  one  I've  got  for  the 
Lardner's  dance  next  Monday.  Would  you  like  to 
see  it? 

Sir  S.  Very  much — on  Monday. 

Peggie.  I'll  run  in  for  a  moment  before  I  go. 

Sir  S.  Do. 

Peggie.  That's  a  square-cut  bodice.  This  is  a  round- 
eut  bodice.  Which  do  you  like  best?  Round-cut  bod- 
ices, or  square-cut  bodices? 

Sir  S.  To-night  I  like  round-cut  bodices.  On  Mon- 
day I  think  I  shall  prefer  square-cut  bodices. 

Peggie.  I  think  I  prefer  a  square-cut  bodice.  I  had 
a  square-cut  bodice  to  this  at  first.  I  looked  a  perfect 
monster,  so  I  had  it  taken  out  and  this  round-cut 
bodice  put.  I'm  not  sure  that  it's  quite  right  now,  and 
I've  tried  it  on  fifty  times — I'm  worrying  you  to  death. 

Sir  S.  No !  no ! 

Peggie.  Yes,  I  am,  and  I  can't  stay  five  minutes. 
Are  you  sure  you  wouldn't  rather  have  the  ball  put  off? 
We  will  put  it  off  even  now,  if  you  wish. 

Sir  S.  Not  for  the  world !  not  for  the  world ! 

Peggie.  That's  so  good  of  you!  But  I  really  think 
you'll  be  better  to-morrow.    I'm  sure  you  will.     You 


THE  GOAL  115 

aren't  really  very  ill,  are  you?    Do  you  like  this  em- 
broidery1? [Pointing  to  trimming  on  her  skirt. 

Sir  S.  It's  beautiful!    Isn't  it  Indian  work? 

Peggie.  Yes;  handmade.  It  took  a  man  twelve  or 
fifteen  years  to  make  this  one  strip. 

Sir  S.  A  quarter  of  a  lifetime  to  decorate  you  for  a 
few  hours.  It  was  time  well  spent.  Ah,  Peggie,  that's 
the  sum  and  meaning  of  all  our  toil  and  money-grub- 
bing! 

Peggie.  What  is? 

Sir  S.  To  make  our  women-folk  beautiful.  It  all 
comes  to  that  in  the  end.  Let  Nature  and  Art  knock 
their  heads  together  till  doomsday,  they'll  never  teach 
one  another  any  finer  trick  than  to  show  a  beautiful 
maiden  to  a  handsome  young  fellow,  or  a  handsome 
young  fellow  to  a  beautiful  maiden. 

[Peggie  has  got  behind  him  and  is  admiring 
herself  in  the  glass. 

Peggie.  Really!  Really!  Yes,  I  suppose  you're 
right.     You're  sure  I'm  not  worrying  you 

Sir  S.  No,  no.  Don't  go.  I'm  quite  at  leisure  now 
to  the  end  of  my  life. 

Peggie.  Oh,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that!  So  I  may 
tell  mamma  that  you  like  my  dress?  What  do  you 
think  of  the  skirt? 

Sir  S.  Isn't  there  too  much  trimming  on  it? 

Peggie.  Oh,  no !    Oh,  no ! 

Sir  S.  Yes,  there's  too  much  trimming. 

Peggie.  Oh,  no !  Oh,  no !  The  dressmaker  said  there 
wasn't  enough. 

Sir  S.  Stupid  hussies,  dressmakers!  They're  like 
other  folks !  They're  always  the  last  to  know  anything 
about  their  own  business.     Tell  your  dressmaker  that 


116  THE  GOAL 

simplicity  is  the  keynote  of  a  great  style  in  dressmak- 
ing, and  engineering — subtle  simplicity.  The  next  time 
she  is  going  to  make  you  a  dress,  tell  her  to  take  a 
walk  through  our  National  Gallery 

Peggie.  Oh,  Sir  Stephen,  you  surely  wouldn't  dress 
me  like  those  old  guys  in  the  National  Gallery!  What 
would  my  partners  say  ? 

Sir  S.  Your  partners !  Ah,  you  pretty  tyrant,  you'll 
turn  a  great  many  heads,  and  set  a  great  many  hearts 
beating  to-night ! 

Peggie.  Shall  I?    Shall  I? 

Sib  S.  Why,  you've  set  my  old  worn-out  heart  flutter- 
ing, and,  goodness  knows,  it  ought  to  have  done  beating 
for  pretty  girls  at  seventy-five — it  ought  to  know  better 
at  seventy-five!  But  it  doesn't,  and — [rising  with  great 
determination] — I've  a  great  mind 

Peggie.  [A  little  alarmed.]  Sir  Stephen,  what  are 
you  going  to  do  ? 

Sib  S.  Don't  you  remember  your  promise? 

Peggie.  My  promise? 

Sib  S.  Your  birthday  party  six  years  ago!  You 
danced  with  me,  and  you  promised  that  I  should  be 
your  first  partner  at  your  first  ball  after  you  came  out ! 

Peggie.  Of  course — I'd  forgotten ! 

Sib  S.  But  I  hadn't!  Will  you  keep  your  promise, 
Peggie?    Will  you  keep  your  promise? 

Peggie.  Wouldn't  it  be  dangerous,  and — you  don't 
really  wish  it? 

Sib  S.  [Sinking  down.]  You're  right,  my  dear.  I'm 
foolish  with  old  age.    Forgive  me ! 

Peggie.  I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you.  But  you'll  be 
able  to  see  us  dancing  across  the  garden.  You  can 
stand  at  that  window  and  look  on. 


THE  GOAL  117 

Sir  S.  Look  on !  That's  all  I'm  fit  for  now — to  look 
on  at  life !  [Turning  away  his  head. 

Peggie.  Sir  Stephen,  what's  the  matter? 

Sir  S.  I've  always  been  in  the  thick  of  the  fight, 
Peggie.  And  I  feel  to-night  as  strong  as  ever  I  did, 
and  they  tell  me  I  mnst  lay  up  and  look  on — [rising 
with  great  energy  and  determination] — I  won't!  I 
won't ! 

Peggie.  Sir  Stephen. 

Sir  S.  I  can't  bear  it,  Peggie.  I've  enjoyed  my  life, 
and  I  don't  want  to  leave  it.  I  want  to  live,  and  live, 
and  live — and  I  will!  Ah,  what  a  selfish  old  coward  I 
am !  I'm  like  a  man  who  has  sat  down  to  a  good  table 
d'hote,  and  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill,  and  now  the  host 
tells  me  my  place  is  wanted  for  another  guest,  I  cry 
out  and  want  to  have  my  dinner  over  again !  Don't 
take  any  notice  of  me,  dear.  Tell  me  about  your  part- 
ners.    Who's  going  to  dance  with  you  to-night? 

Peggie.  Oh,  I  suppose  Mr.  Lascelles,  Freddie  Lister, 
Lord  Doverbury,  Johnny  Butler,  Sir  Egerton  Wen- 
dover,  Dick  French — amongst  others. 

Sir  S.  Peggie 

Peggie.  Yes • 

Sir  S.  You  won't  misunderstand  me,  dear.  I'm  old 
enough  to  be  your  grandfather.  [Takes  her  hand  very 
tenderly.]  You  won't  misunderstand  me.  [Very  seri- 
ously.] Take  care  how  you  choose  your  partner  for  life. 
You'll  have  a  wide  choice,  and  all  your  future  happi- 
ness, and  the  happiness  perhaps  of  many  generations 
to  come,  will  depend  on  the  one  moment  when  you  say 
"Yes"  to  one  of  the  scores  of  young  fellows  who'll  ask 
you  to  be  his  wife.  Take  care,  dear !  Take  care !  Look 
him  thoroughly  up  and  down !    Be  sure  that  he  has  a 


118  THE  GOAL 

good  full  open  eye  that  can  look  you  straight  in  the 
face;  and  be  sure  that  the  whites  of  his  eyes  are  clear. 
Take  care  he  hasn't  got  a  queer-shaped  head,  or  a  low 
forehead.  A  good  round  head,  and  a  good  full  high 
forehead,  do  you  hear?  Notice  the  grip  of  his  hand 
when  he  shakes  hands  with  you!  Take  care  it's  strong 
and  firm,  and  not  cold  and  dry.  No  young  man  should 
have  a  cold,  dry  hand.  Don't  say  "Yes"  till  you've 
seen  him  out  of  trousers,  in  riding  dress,  or  court  dress. 
Look  at  the  shape  of  his  legs — a  good,  well-shaped  leg, 
eh,  Peggie  ?  And  take  care  it  is  his  leg !  See  that  he's 
well-knit  and  a  little  lean,  not  flabby;  doesn't  squint; 
doesn't  stammer;  hasn't  got  any  nervous  tricks  or 
twitchings.  Don't  marry  a  bald  man !  They  say  we 
shall  all  be  bald  in  ten  generations.  Wait  ten  genera- 
tions, Peggie,  and  then  don't  many  a  bald  man !  Can 
you  remember  all  this,  dear?  Watch  his  walk!  See 
that  he  has  a  good  springy  step,  and  feet  made  of  elas- 
tic— can  do  his  four  or  five  miles  an  hour  without  turn- 
ing a  hair.  Don't  have  him  if  he  has  a  cough  in  the 
winter  or  the  spring.  Young  men  ought  never  to  have 
a  cough.  And  be  sure  he  can  laugh  well  and  heartily — 
not  a  snigger,  or  a  wheeze,  or  a  cackle,  but  a  good,  deep, 
hearty  laugh  right  down  from  the  bottom  of  his  chest. 
And  if  he  has  a  little  money,  or  even  a  good  bit,  so  much 
the  better!  There  now!  You  choose  a  man  like  that, 
Peggie,  and  I  won't  promise  you  that  you'll  be  happy, 
but  if  you're  not,  it  won't  be  your  fault,  and  it  won't  be 
his,  and  it  won't  be  mine ! 

Peggie.  Very  well,  Sir  Stephen,  I'll  try  and  remem- 
ber. 

Sir  S.  Do,  my  dear,  do !    It's  a  good  legacy,  my  dear. 


THE  GOAL  119 

I've  left  you  another.    You  won't  bo  disappointed  when 

my  will's  read ■ 

Peggie.  Oh,  Sir  Stephen! 

Sir  S.  No,  you  won't;  but  remember  my  advice  to- 
night.    That's  the  best  wedding  present  for  any  girl. 

Peggie.  Very  well,  Sir  Stephen!     I  must  be  going. 

Good-bye.  [Giving  her  hand. 

Sir  S.  Yes,  I  suppose  you  mustn't  stay.     [Taking 

her  hand,  keeping  it  as  he  had  kept  Crane's,  as  if  he 

couldn't  bear  to  let  her  go.]     Good-bye. 

[Looking  longingly  at  her  with   a  mute  en- 
treaty to  stay.     Peggie  draws  her  hand 
away,  puts  on  cloak,  and  goes  to  door, 
left.     He  watches  her  all  the  while. 
Peggie.  [At  door,  runs  back  to  him.]   Sir  Stephen, 
I'll  keep  my  promise.     You  shall  be  my  first  partner. 
[Offering  her  card.]  Write  your  name  down  for  my 
first  dance. 

Sir  S.  But  I  shan't  be  there. 

Peggie.  I'll  sit  out,  and  keep  it  for  you. 

Sir  S.  No,  no 

Peggie.  Yes,  yes !    I  insist.    Put  your  name  down ! 

[lie  writes  on  her  card.   Enter  Nurse,  left. 
Peggie.  Good-bye,  Sir  Stephen. 
Sir  S.  Good-bye,  Peggie!     [Softly.]   Peggie!     Her 
name  was  Peggie !    My  wife's  name  was  Peggie ! 

[She  bends  and  kisses  his  forehead;  then  goes 
to  door,  turns  and  looks  at  him. 
Peggie.  An  'voir. 

[Blows  him  a  kiss  and  exit,  left.  Sir  Stephen 
looks  longingly  after  her,  walks  a  little  up 
and  down  the  room. 


120  THE  GOAL 

Nurse.  [Anxiously.]  Sir  Stephen,  don't  you  think 
you  might  lie  down  now? 

Sir  S.  Run  away !    Run  away ! 

Nurse.  Won't  you  rest  a  little  on  the  sofa  ? 

Sir  S.  Run  away !    Run  away ! 

Nurse.  Can  I  get  you  anything? 

Sir  S.  Run  away!  Run  away!  [Pacing  up  and 
down.]  Mr.  Daniel  Famariss  hasn't  come  yet? 

Nurse.  No.  You  know  they  said  that  he  was  away 
surveying  in  an  out-of-the-way  country,  where  no  mes- 
sage could  reach  him. 

Sir  S.  If  he  should  come  too  late,  tell  him — tell  him — 
I've  gone  surveying  in  an  out-of-the-way  country — 
where  no  message  can  reach  me!  [Changing  tone.] 
Dear  me,  Nurse,  I'm  afraid  this  dying  is  going  to  be  a 
very  tiresome  business  for  both  of  us! 

Nurse.  Oh,  Sir  Stephen,  I'm  sure  I  don't  mind! 

Sir  S.  You  don't  mind?  That's  very  good  of  you. 
You're  in  no  hurry?    Well,  neither  am  I. 

Nurse.  Sir  Stephen,  don't  you  think 

Sir  S.  What? 

Nurse.  Last  night  you  said  you'd  send  for  a  clergy- 
man. 

Sir  S.  Did  I  ?  That  was  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. How  horribly  demoralized  a  man  gets  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning! 

Nurse.  But,  Sir  Stephen 

Sir  S.  Well? 

Nurse.  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  begin  to  think 
of  better  things? 

Sir  S.  Well.  I'm  seventy-five.  Perhaps  it  is  nearly 
time.    What  better  things? 

Nurse.  Death  and — judgment. 


THE  GOAL  121 

Sir  S.  Don't  talk  nonsense.  I  don't  call  death  and 
judgment  better  things. 

Nurse.  But,  Sir  Stephen — you  will  bo  judged. 

Sir  S.  Judged?  Yes.  But  I  shan't  be  judged  by 
the  prayers  I've  said,  and  the  psalms  I've  sung.  I 
shan't  be  judged  by  the  lies  I've  told,  and  the  deceits 
I've  practised,  and  the  passions  I've  given  way  to.  I 
shan't  be  judged  by  the  evil  and  rottenness  in  me.  No; 
I  shall  be  judged  by  the  railways  I've  made,  and  the 
canals  I've  scooped,  and  the  bridges  I've  built — and  let 
me  tell  you,  my  dear  creature,  my  accounts  are  in  good 
order,  and  ready  for  inspection  at  any  moment,  and  I 
believe  there's  a  good  balance  on  my  side.  [Guests 
have  been  assembling  in  the  ballroom.  Dance  music 
bursts  out.  Dancing  begins.]  Ah!  What  tune  is 
that? 

[Goes  up  to  window,  begins  dancing  a  few 
steps,  swaying  with  the  music. 

Nurse.  [Frightened.]   Sir  Stephen!    Sir  Stephen! 

Sir  S,  Run  away !    Run  away ! 

Nurse.  Sir  Stephen,  you  wouldn't  be  found  dancing 
at  the  end? 

Sir  S.  Why  not?  I've  done  my  work!  Why 
shouldn't  I  play  for  a  little  while?  [A  bell  is  heard.] 
Hark!     The  front  door  bell 

Nurse.  Yes.  [Goes  to  door,  left. 

Sir  S.  Go  downstairs  and  see  if  that's  my  son.    If  it 

is,  tell  him 

[Gentle  knock  at  door,  left.  Adams  enters  a 
step.  The  dancing  and  music  are  contin- 
ued in  the  ballroom. 

Adams.  I  beg  pardon,  Sir  Stephen.  Mr.  Daniel 
Famariss  has  arrived 


122  THE  GOAL 

Sir  S.  Ah!  [Getting  excited. 

Adams.  And  would  like  to  see  you. 

Sir  S.  Tell  him  he  knows  the  conditions. 

Nurse.  But,  Sir  Stephen 

Sir  S.  Run  away,  my  good  soul!     Run  away.     [To 
Adams.]  He  knows  the  conditions.    If  he  accepts  them, 
I  shall  be  pleased  to  see  him. 
Dan.  [Voice  outside  door.]  Father! 
Sir  S.  Shut  that  door ! 

[Adams  nearly  closes  door,  which  is  kept  open 
a  few  inches  from  the  other  side. 
Dan.  [Outside.]  Father!  You  won't  shut  the  door  in 
my  face? 

Sir  S.  Keep  on  that  side  of  it,  then.     Adams,  you 
can  go.    Leave  the  door  ajar. 

[Exit  Adams,  left.    Sir  Stephen,  with  an  im- 
perious  gesture,   points   Nurse   to    arch- 
way  right.      Exit   Nurse,  into    bedroom, 
with  an  appealing  gesture  to   Sir   Ste- 
phen. 
Sir  S.   [Goes  to  door,  left;  it  is  still  open  a  few 
inches.]  Are  you  there,  Dan? 
Dan.   [Outside.]  Yes,  father. 

Sir  S.  I  vowed  I'd  never  set  eyes  on  you  again,  till 
you  owned  you  were  wrong  about  those  girders.  You 
were  wrong?  [No  reply.]  You  were  wrong?  [No 
reply.]  Do  you  hear?  Confound  you,  you  know  you 
were  wrong!  [No  reply.]  Do  you  hear,  Dan?  Why 
won't  you  say  you  were  wrong?  You  won't!  [Slams 
door,  goes  right,  has  an  outburst  of  anger,  recovers, 
listens,  goes  back  to  door,  opens  it  a  little.]  Are  you 
there,  Dan? 
Dan.  [Outside.]  Yes,  father. 


THE  GOAL  123 

Sir  S.  You  were  wrong,  Dan.  [No  reply.]  I  haven't 
got  long  to  live,  Dan.  It's  angina  pectoris,  and  the 
next  attack  will  kill  me.  It  may  come  at  any  moment. 
[Very  piteously.]  Dan,  you  were  wrong?  Why  won't 
you  say  so?    Even  if  you  tell  a  lie  about  it? 

Dan.   [Outside.]  I  was  wrong. 

Sib  S.  Ah!  [Flings  open  the  door,  Dan  runs  in. 
Sir  Stephen  meets  him,  embraces  him  affectionately, 
with  a  half  sob.]  Why  didn't  you  say  it  before?  You 
knew  how  much  I  loved  you.  Why  did  you  keep  apart 
from  me  all  these  years? 

Dan.  I'm  sorry,  sir.  But  perhaps  it  was  for  the  best. 
I've  done  very  well. 

Sir  S.  Of  course  you  have.  You're  my  son.  But 
how  much  better  you'd  have  done  if  you  had  stuck  to 
me !  How  much  better  we  both  should  have  done !  I'm 
sorry,  too,  Dan.  I  was  wrong,  too — not  about  the  gir- 
ders. You  were  wrong  about  them,  Dan.  But  I  was 
wrong  to  be  angry  and  to  swear  I  wouldn't  see  you. 
Ah,  what  could  I  have  done  with  you  at  my  side!  I 
could  have  earned  out  my  Milford  Haven  scheme. 
Perhaps  it  isn't  too  late!     [Going  to  bureau,  getting 

more  and  more  excited.]    I've  got  all  the  x>lans  here 

[Taking  out  a  heap  of  plans. 

Dan.  Not  now,  father;  not  now! 

Sir  S.  Yes,  now,  my  boy!  To-morrow  may  be  too 
late!  [Going  to  table.]  Come  here,  my  lad !  Oh,  Dan, 
what  years  we've  wasted !  Come  here !  I  want  you  to 
carry  this  out.  You'll  have  immense  opposition.  Beat 
it  down!  You'll  have  to  buy  Shadwell  and  his  lot. 
They're  a  dirty  gang.  But  you'll  have  to  do  it.  I  hato 
bribery,  Dan ;  but  when  you've  got  to  do  it,  do  it  thor- 
oughly !    Then  there's  Mincham.    Buy  him  over,  if  you 


124  THE  GOAL 

can,  at  a  small  figure — say  a  thousand  pounds — he's  a 
mean  little  cur;  but  offer  him  that,  and  if  he  won't  take 
it,  snap  your  fingers  at  him,  and  swamp  him !  Remem- 
ber the  trick,  the  scoundrel's  trick,  he  served  me  over 
the  granite  for  the  viaduct.  Remember  it,  Dan,  and 
don't  spare  him!  Swamp  him!  Swamp  him!  *  [With 
great  energy  of  hate. 

Dan.  Father 

Sir  S.  Bring  your  chair  up.  I  must  go  on  now — 
while  it's  all  before  me!  I  want  you  to  carry  this 
Milford  Haven  scheme  out!  I  want  it  to  be  said  that 
what  old  Stephen  Famariss  couldn't  do,  young  Dan 
Famariss  could !  The  father  was  a  great  man,  the  son 
shall  be  a  greater,  eh?  Look  here,  you  must  start  on 
this  side.    I've  had  all  the  soundings  made 

Dan.  To-morrow,  father;  to-morrow! 

Sir  S.  No,  now!  There's  no  such  thing  as  to-mor- 
row !    We'll  go  through  it  now — in  case There's  a 

great  world-tussle  coming,  Dan — I  shan't  live  to  see  it — 
but  it's  coming,  and  the  engineer  that  ties  England  and 
America  will  do  a  good  turn  to  both  countries.  England 
to  America  in  four  days !  I  want  that  crown  to  rest  on 
your  head !    Look !    You  must  begin  here !    Look !    Just 

there !    You  must  throw  a  bridge  over 

[Stops  suddenly,  puts  his  hand  to  his  heart; 
his  face  indicates  intense  agony.  Nurse 
enters  from  bedroom. 

Dan.  Father 

Sir  S.  [Persisting,  with  a  wild  aimless  gesture.] 
Throw  a  bridge  from  here — to  the  other  side,  and 
then 

Dan.  Father,  what  is  it? 

*  1  Kings,  chap,  ii.,  verses  8,  9. 


THE  GOAL  125 

Sir  S.  The  end,  Dan.  [His  face  shows  that  he  is 
suffering  great  pain.  A  great  burst  of  dance  music. 
They  offer  to  support  him.  He  loaves  them  off.]  No, 
thank  you.  I'll  die  standing.  England  to  America  in 
four  days.  [Long  pause.  He  stands  bolt  upright  with 
great  determination.]  You  were  wrong  about  those 
girders,  Dan — My  Peggie — I  wonder  if  it's  all  moon- 
shine— Peggie — My  Peggie ■ 

[Dies,  tumbles  over  table.    Music  and  dancing 
in  ballroom  louder  than  ever. 

CURTAIN. 


HER   TONGUE, 

A  Comedy  in  one  act 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED 

Miss  Patty  Hanslope,  about  thirty 

Minnie  Bracy,  her  cousin 

Walter  Scobell,  a  rich  Argentine  planter 

Fred  Bracy,  Minnie's  husband 

Waiter 

Scene.     Varley's  Private  Hotel,  Southampton. 
Time.     The  Present — a  morning  in  Autumn. 


HER   TONGUE 

Scene:  Varley's  Hotel,  Southampton.  A  private  sit- 
ting room  furnished  in  an  old-fashioned,  rather 
dingy,  comfortable  way.  A  door  at  back  to  the 
right,  leading  into  a  passage.  A  fireplace,  right, 
with  fire  burning.  A  large  looking-glass  over  the 
fireplace.  A  large  bay  window  all  along  left,  giv- 
ing a  view  of  a  garden,  and  beyond  its  wall  ship- 
ping, masts,  big  steamer  funnels,  etc.  Left  centre, 
toward  the  window,  a  large  narrow  table  with  a 
cloth. 

[Discover  Waiter,  shoiving  in  Fred  and  Min- 
nie Bract. 

Waiter.  How  long  should  you  require  the  sitting- 
room,  sir? 

Fred.  [An  ordinary  Englishman,  about  thirty-five.] 
Only  for  an  hour  or  so.  My  friend  is  leaving  by  the 
Dunstaffnage — what  time  does  she  sail? 

Waiter.  At  two  o'clock.  Will  this  room  suit  you, 
sir? 

Fred.  Yes;  this  will  do.  When  my  friend  comes 
back,  ask  him  to  come  here. 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir.  [Exit. 

Fred.  [Laughing.]  Well,  this  is  a  pretty  mad  bit  of 
business. 

Minnie.  [A      well-dressed     Englishwoman,      about 

129 


130  HER  TONGUE 

thirty.]  Not  at  all!  I  saw  Mr.  Scobell  was  rather 
struck  by  Patty  at  the  ball  last  week.  It  was  lucky  she 
was  staying  at  Southsea  and  could  get  over  so  easily. 

Fred.  What's  the  good  of  bringing  her  over  for  an 
hour?    They  can't  fix  up  an  engagement  in  that  time. 

Minnie.  Why  not?  Mr.  Scobell  seems  to  know  his 
own  mind. 

Fred.  Oh,  yes! 

Minnie.  And  he  wants  to  get  married. 

Fred.  Yes;  but  you're  going  ahead  too  fast,  old  girl. 

Minnie.  There  isn't  much  time  to  waste,  is  there? 
He  has  only  another  hour  in  England,  and  he  isn't 
engaged  yet.  What  did  he  really  say  in  the  smoking- 
room  last  night? 

Fred.  Nothing  much.  Except  that  ho  wanted  a  wife 
out  there,  and  he  wished  he'd  had  an  opportunity  of  see- 
ing more  of  Patty.  And  on  the  strength  of  that,  you 
telegraph  straight  off  to  Patty  to  come  here  and  meet 
him. 

Minnie.  Naturally!  Mr.  Scobell  will  be  a  very  rich 
man,  and  I  wanted  to  give  poor  old  Pat  a  chance. 

Fred.  She  has  muddled  her  love  affairs  terribly.  You 
might  just  give  Pat  a  friendly  caution. 

Minnie.  Her  tongue?  [Fred  nods.]  Yes,  she  does 
talk. 

Fred.  And  never  says  anything!  But  look  at  her 
mother ! 

Minnie.  Oh,  aunt's  a  downright  horrid  old  bore ! 

Fred.  And  Patty's  just  as  bad!    Poor  old  Lorry! 

Minnie.  Why  poor  old  Lorry? 

Fred.  Fancy  being  out  alone  in  the  wilds  of  Argen- 
tina, and  having  nothing  to  listen  to  but  Patty's 
tongue,  for  four  or  five  years.     [Bursts  into  a  roar 


HER  TONGUE  131 

Minnie.  Hush! 

[Enlcr  at  back,  Lawrence  Scobell,  about 
thirty-five,  rather  heavy,  thickset,  stolid, 
quiet,  cautious. 

Fred.  So  you've  turned  up,  Lorry1? 

Scobell.  Yes,  there's  a  mistake  about  my  cabin; 
wrong-  number;  they've  turned  another  fellow  in. 

Minnie.  Perhaps  you'll  have  to  stay  till  the  next 
boat. 

Scobell.  [Shakes  his  head.]     Can't ! 

Minnie.  Not  even  to  meet  my  charming  cousin, 
Patty,  and  get  to  know  her  better? 

Scobell.  [Shakes  his  head.]  I  must  be  in  Buenos 
Ayres  this  day  three  weeks.  Miss  Hanslope  is  coming 
here1? 

Minnie.  [Taking  out  an  opened  telegram.]  Yes,  I've 
just  got  her  telegram.  She  says — [reading]  :  "De- 
lighted to  come  over,  will  be  at  Varley's  about  twelve." 
She'll  be  here  directly. 

Scobell.  In  your  telegram  to  her  you  didn't  mention 
it  was  on  my  account  1 

Minnie.  No — at  least  I  said  you  were  sailing  by  the 
Dunstaffnage,  and  wished  to  say  good-bye  to  her. 

Scobell.  You  haven't  committed  me  ? 

Minnie.  Oh  no!  But  you  are — a — interested  in 
Patty? 

Scobell.  Yes,  indeed! 

Minnie.  And  you  hope  to  be — still  further  inter- 
ested? 

Scobell.  Yes.  I  dread  the  terrible  loneliness  out 
there.    Not  a  soul  to  speak  to  for  weeks  together ! 

Minnie.  Patty  is  splendid  company — isn't  she,  Fred? 


132  HER  TONGUE 

Fred.  Delightful !  You'll  never  have  a  dull  moment, 
old  boy. 

Minnie.  She  has  refused  three  offers  in  the  last  six 
months. 

Fred.  And  I  know  Bill  Garriss  is  screwing  up  his 
pluck  to  ask  her. 

Minnie.  [Shakes  her  head.]  I'm  afraid  you  don't 
stand  much  chance.    Still  you  can  but  try. 

Scobell.  Thank  you.     If  you  will  merely  give  me 

half  an  hour  alone  with  Miss  Hanslope 

[Enter  Waiter. 

Waiter.  Mr.  Scobell1? 

Scobell.  Yes. 

Waiter.  A  clerk  from  the  shipping  office  wishes  to 
see  you  about  your  cabin,  sir. 

Scobell.  I'll  come  to  him.  [Exit  Waiter.]  If  Miss 
Hanslope  comes,  I  shall  be  back  in  a  few  minutes. 

[Exit. 

Fred.  Well,  Patty  can't  say  we  haven't  done  our  best 
for  her ! 

Minnie.  If  only  she  won't  talk  too  much ! 

Fred.  Yes,  Pat's  a  good-looking  girl;  if  she'd  only 
hold  her  tongue,  nobody  would  ever  guess  what  a  fool 
she  is ! 

Minnie.  It  was  her  terrible  chatter  that  choked  off 
George  Moorcroft — he  told  me  so  himself. 

Fred.  Perhaps  Lorry  won't  find  her  out — he'll  only 
have  half  an  hour.  Let's  hope  he'll  spend  all  the  time 
in  looking  at  her. 

[Patty's  voice  heard  in  the  passage;  a  moment 
or  two  later  the  Waiter  opens  the  door 
for  her  and  stands  back;  she  is  heard  com- 


HER  TONGUE  133 

ing  along  the  passage  speaking  very  rap- 
idly. 
Patty.  [Off.]  Yes,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bracy.  He's  a 
little  fair  man  with  reddish  hair  and  a  sandy  bristling 
mustache  that  he's  always  curling  up  at  the  end,  like 
the  German  Emperor,  and  she's  a  tall  dark  woman  with 
a  Chinchilla  muff,  and  a  pointed  nose  something  like 
my  own. 

[Sailing  into  room,  talking  all  the  while.  She 
is  a  handsome  woman  about  30,  with  a  per- 
petual smile,  and  a  perpetual  stream  of 
empty  irrelevant  talk,  which  flows  on  in  a 
cackling  but  not  unpleasant  voice,  and  is 
constantly  punctuated  by  an  irritating, 
meaningless  little  laugh  of  three  notes;  the 
last  note  is  the  highest,  so  the  laugh  is 
never  completed,  but  turns  up  unexpect- 
edly in  another  part  of  the  sentence.  She 
has  an  air  of  joyous  self-complacency,  and 
never  suspects  herself  of  being  an  empty 
silly  fool.  She  over-emphasizes  nearly 
every  word  in  a  sentence,  especially  unim- 
portant adjectives  and  adverbs. 
[To  Waiter.]  Now,  why  couldn't  you  show  me  in  at 
first  instead  of  making  such  a  fuss  about  it? 

[Waiter  is  going — she  continues  speaking.] 
Oh !    I've  left  a  waterproof — please  look  after  it. 

[Waiter  goes  off  and  closes  door  after  him. 

[Patty  goes  up,  opens  it  and  calls  off.] 

Oh,  and  an  umbrella.    [Closes  door.]    Well,  here  you 

are,  my  dear!     [Kissing  Minnie.]     I've  been  racing  all 

over  the  hotel  to  find  you !    I  do  think  Southampton  is 

the  most  stupid  place,  and  the  waiters  are  absolutely 


134  HER  TONGUE 

the  most  stupid  people  under  the  sun !  Well,  dear, 
where  is  Mr.  Scobell  ?  Do  you  really  think  now  that  he 
is — [silly  little  laugh]  smitten?  I  couldn't  quite  under- 
stand your  telegram,  so  I  flew  upstairs  without  any 
breakfast  and  dressed  as  quickly  as  I  could.  I  hope  I 
haven't  overdone  it — [glancing  at  herself  in  the  glass] — 
because  I  don't  wish  Mr.  Scobell  to  think  me  a  dressy, 
extravagant  woman.  At  the  same  time  I  want  to  look 
my — [silly  little  laugh]  sweetest  and  best.  Oh,  Fred, 
how  are  you?  How  can  Minnie  let  you  wear  such  awful 
waistcoats?  When  I  get  a  husband — [silly  little  laugh] 
I  shall  take  care  to Where  have  I  put  that  tele- 
gram? [Searching  her  pockets  and  a  handbag.]  But 
you  know  I  thought  that  night  at  the  ball  he  was — 
[silly  little  laugh]  because  he  kept  on  looking  at  me  in 
a — [silly  little  laugh].  Well,  you  know  how  men  look 
when  they  really  are — [silly  little  laugh].  Oh,  here  it 
is !  [Producing  the  telegram,  reading.]  "You  have 
made  a  great  impression  [silly  little  laugh]  on  Mr.  Sco- 
bell. He  is  most  anxious  to  see  you  again  [silly  little 
laugh].  Meet  us  at  Varley's  Hotel,  Southampton,  early 
as  possible.  Your  whole  future  at  stake — most  impor- 
tant you  have  an  understanding  with  him  before  he 
sails."  Do  you  know  I  think  it  was  the  dearest  and 
sweetest  thing  in  the  world  for  you  to  spend  all  that 
money  on  a  telegram — [kisses  her] — and  when  it's  all 
settled  [silly  little  laugh]  I  shall  give  you  my  diamond 
and  pearl  brooch  as  a  little  acknowledgment — darling. 
You  know,  the  one  with  the  large  pearl  for  the  body  of 
the  bee — it's  my  favourite  brooch.  And  I  shall  work 
Fred  a  very  handsome  waistcoat  myself  instead  of  that 
awful  thing  he's  wearing.       And  do  you  really  think, 


HER  TONGUE  135 

eh?  [silly  little  laugh]  Mr.  Scobell  is  really,  really, 
really  smitten? 

Minnie.  We've  all  but  fixed  it  up  for  you !  You've 
only  got  to  let  him  pi'oposo  and  accept  him  ! 

Patty.  Thank  you,  dear.  Of  course  I  shall  accept 
him  if  he  gives  me  the  chance. 

Minnie.  lie's  tremendously  rich — in  a  few  years  he'll 
be  a  millionaire. 

Fred.  A  multi-millionaire!  You've  only  got  to  go 
out  to  Argentina  for  four  or  five  years,  Pat,  and  then 
come  back  to  London  and  help  him  to  spend  it. 

Minnie.  It  will  be  your  own  fault  if  you  don't  bring 
it  off  this  time ! 

Patty.  My  dear!  How  can  it  bo  my  fault  when  I've 
simply  flown  over  here  without  any  breakfast  to  see 
him?  I  wonder  if  I  could  have  just  a  biscuit,  and  a 
glass  of  sherry1? 

Fred.  Certainly. 

Patty.  No — it  might  make  my  nose  red.  My  nose 
isn't  red  now,  is  it?  [Glancing  at  herself  in  glass.]  It 
always  gets  a  little  red  when  I  go  without  breakfast. 
[Looking  at  herself  in  the  glass.]  I  almost  wish  I'd  put 
on  my  other  hat — you  know,  the  large  one — [Her  pres- 
ent hat  is  enormous] — but  I  thought  it  might  get  dusty 
■ — however  if  he  is  really — [silly  little  laugh].  I  daresay 
it  will  do  well  enough  [silly  little  laugh],  and  after  all, 
it  isn't  what  one  wears  as  much  as  what  one  is  in 
oneself  that  really  matters — I  think  I'll  take  my  hat 
off  if  you  don't  think  it  looks  just  a  little  too — too— 
[Takes  hat  off.]  Yes,  I  really  think  that  looks  better 
— don't  you?  [Looking  at  herself  in  the  glass.]  Do 
you  know  I  think  I  shall  hang  back  at  first,  and  give 
him  just  a  tiny,  tiny  little  wee  bit  of  a  snubbing 


13G  HER  TONGUE 

Minnie.  My  dear  Pat,  there's  no  time  for  that. 

Fred.  Take  my  advice,  Pat — come  to  business  at 
once.  The  moment  Lorry  makes  you  an  offer,  or  even 
a  little  before,  down  on  him,  and  don't  give  him  a 
chance  of  escape. 

Patty.  Very  well.  I  will.  But  I  hope  he  won't 
think  I'm  throwing  myself  at  him,  because  it  isn't  as 
if  I  hadn't  got  other  chances.  There's  George  Moor- 
croft  only  waiting  for  me  to  give  him  another  chance — 
and  I  rather  fancy  Mr.  Garriss  is  hoping  I — [looking 
at  herself  in  glass] — I'm  sure  my  nose  is  a  little  red. 

Fred.  Not  a  bit!  Your  nose  is  all  right.  It  isn't 
your  nose  that  will  do  the  mischief. 

Patty.  What  then?    What  do  you  mean? 

Minnie.  Now,  Pat,  don't  get  angry!  George  Moor- 
croft  told  me  that  the  reason  he  hung  back  was 

Well,  my  dear,  it  was  your  tongue. 

Patty.  My  tongue f !  My  tongue  1 ! !  My  tongue?  ? ! ! 
The  reason  George  Moorcrof  t  holds  back  is  because  I've 
very  plainly  given  him  to  understand  that  it's  abso- 
lutely not  the  least  possible  use  in  the  world  his  coming 
forward!  George  Moorcrof t!  Why,  he  has  the  vilest 
temper.     George  Moorcrof t!     [With  a  little  snort.] 

Fred.  Well,  never  mind  George  Moorcroft.  Lorry 
Scobell  will  be  here  in  a  moment. 

Minnie.  Yes!  Now,  Patty,  for  your  own  sake- 
take  care ! 

Patty.  Take  care  of  what  ? 

Minnie.  Mr.  Scobell  is  a  very  cold,  quiet,  reserved 
man. 

Patty.  Then  he'll  naturally  want  somebody  who  is 
very  gay  and  lively. 


HER  TONGUE  137 

Minnie.  [Looking  dubiously  at  Fred.]  I  don't  think 
Mr.  Scobell  will  like 

Patty.  My  dear  Minnie,  that  shows  how  little  you 
know  about  human  nature.  People  are  always  at- 
tracted by  their  opposites.  I'm  very  glad  you've  told 
me  Mr.  Scobell  is  cold  and  reserved,  because  now  I 
know  exactly  how  to  manage  him.  I  was  going  to  be  a 
little  reserved  and  standoffish  myself,  but  now,  well, 
I  shall  be  a  little,  just  a  little  [silly  little  laugh]  free 
and  easy,  so  as  to  fit  completely  into  his  moods.  Why 
are  you  two  looking  at  each  other  like  that  ?  Do  let  me 
know  how  to  manage  my  own  love  affairs.  Really  any 
one  would  think  I'd  never  had  [silly  little  laugh]  a  pro- 
posal before ! 

Fred.  [Solemnly.]  I  hope,  Patty,  you'll  never  stand 
in  need  of  one  again! 

[Scobell   enters   at   back   with   a  steamship 
ticket  in  his  hand. 

Fred.  [To  Lorry.]  Miss  Hanslope  has  just  arrived. 

Patty.  [Shaking  hands  eagerly  with  Scobell.]  How 
d'ye  do?  It  was  so  kind  of  you  to  wish  to  see  me 
again.  I  had  a  croquet  party  at  the  Barringers' — 
they're  really  very  nice  people,  and  one  meets  such  a  lot 
of  nice  people  there,  but  the  moment  I  got  Minnie's 
telegram  I  flew  off,  and 

Fred.  [Has  been  making  signs  to  Patty  to  be  quiet 
— he  now  bursts  in  upon  her  stream  of  talk.]  One 
moment,  Patty — Minnie  and  I  have  a  little  shopping  to 
do,  and  if  you'll  excuse  us — Lorry,  old  fellow,  I'll  or- 
der lunch  for  four,  and  I'll  have  it  all  ready  to  pop  on 
the  table  the  moment  we  come  in.  Come  along,  Minnie ! 
We  must  make  haste  I 

[Exit.] 


138  HER  TONGUE 

[Minnie  kisses  Patty,  gives  her  a  warning 

look  and  sign,  and  exit. 
[Scobell  has  gone  up  to  fireplace.] 

Patty.  [Glances  at  him  a  moment.]  So  you're  really 
sailing  for  Argentina  to-day? 

Scobell.  Yes. 

Patty.  I've  always  wished  to  travel.  Of  course, 
we've  done  Switzerland  and  the  Riviera  till  we're  utterly 
sick  of  it.  I  loathe  Switzerland !  But  I've  always  had 
a  great  desire  to  explore  fresh  countries,  and  camp  out, 
and  rough  it  a  great  deal,  and  perhaps  do  a  little  pig- 
sticking— that  is  if  you  wouldn't  think  it  a  little — 
just  a  tiny  little  bit  [silly  little  laugh]  unwomanly. 
I've  such  a  horror  of  doing  anything  unwomanly. 
When  I  die  I  should  like  my  epitaph  to  be  "She  never 
did  anything  unwomanly."  Just  that !  No  more ! 
"She  never  did  anything  unwomanly."  And  perhaps 
you  think  pigsticking  unwomanly? 

Scobell.  There  is  no  pigsticking  in  Argentina. 

Patty.  Isn't  there?  Then,  of  course,  that  settles 
the  question.    Where  is  Argentina? 

Scobell.  In  South  America. 

Patty.  South  America!  How  awfully  interesting! 
I've  always  dreamed  of  South  America  since  I  was  a 
schoolgirl,  and  read  about  Red  Indians,  and  the  Incas, 
and  Pagodas,  and  the  Conquest  of  Peru.  I  can't  re- 
member who  it  was  that  conquered  Peru.  [A  pause.] 
Peru  was  conquered,  wasn't  it?  [Pause.]  Peru  is  in 
South  America,  isn't  it? 

Scobell.  Yes.      [She  looks  at  him — a  longish  pause. 

Patty.  And  so  you  really  sail  for  Argentina  this 
afternoon  ? 

Scobell.  Yes. 


HER  TONGUE  139 

Patty.  I  felt  so  flattered  when  I  got  Minnie's  tele- 
gram to  say  that  you  remembered  me.  And  we  only 
met  tbat  one  night  at  the  ball !  But  how  often  one 
finds  that  even  chance  meetings  like  ours  are  charged 
with  lifelong  consequences,  doesn't  one? 

Scobell.  Yes. 

Patty.  One  sees  a  face  in  a  crowd,  or  perhaps  in  a 
railway  carriage,  or  one  hears  a  distant  note  of  music; 
or  perhaps  in  the  bustle  and  whirl  of  a  London  season 
a  sense  of  the  utter  emptiness  of  things  comes  over  one, 
and  one  longs  to  throw  off  all  the  trammels  of  civilisa- 
tion, and  live  just  a  sweet  simple  existence  in  some 
new  country — haven't  you  ever  felt  like  that? 

Scobell.  Not  exactly. 

[Patty  feels  discouraged,  and  there  is  a  long 
pause. 

Patty.  So  you  really  must  sail  for  Argentina  this 
afternoon  ? 

Scobell.  Yes. 

[Another  long  pause.     Patty  looks   at  him 
and  then  goes  towards  table. 

Patty.  [In  a  colder,  less  eager  voice.]  I  really 
couldn't  understand  Minnie's  telegram.  She  said  some- 
thing about  your  sailing,  and  you'd  like  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  me.    You  did  wish  to  see  me? 

Scobell.  Yes.  [Coining  up  to  her.]  The  fact  is, 
I  was  very  lonely  out  there,  and  last  night  in  Fred's 
smoking-room  I  felt  very  down  in  the  mouth  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  England — and  I  thought — [ap- 
proaching her  rather  tenderly]. 

Patty.  Yes?     [Approaching  him  a  little.] 

Scobell.  I  felt — [approaching  her]. 

Patty.  Yes? 


140  HER  TONGUE 

Scobell.  I  thought  if  I  could  persuade  some  nice 
girl ■ 

Patty.  Yes? 

Scobell.  I  dreaded  being  out  there  alone — 

Patty.  How  terrible  for  you !  How  absolutely  aw- 
ful !  I  think  there's  nothing  more  dreadful  than  that 
feeling  of  utter  solitude  and  desolation  that  creeps  over 
one  when  one  is  left  alone  for  any  long  time.  What 
do  you  do  in  Argentina? 

Scobell.  I'm  developing  a  large  tract  of  land,  cut- 
ting it  up  into  farms.    I  farm  one  large  tract  myself. 

Patty.  What  a  perfectly  sweet  life!  Three  years 
ago  we  went  for  a  month  to  a  farmhouse  in  Wales,  and 
I  used  to  watch  the  girl  milking  the  cows  every  eve- 
ning. I  asked  her  to  let  me  try  one  evening,  but  she 
didn't  understand  a  word  of  English,  and  the  cow  got 
rather  troublesome,  and  when  I  patted  her  dear  little 
calf  she  looked  quite  vicious,  as  if  she  was  going  to 
toss  me.  Not  that  I'm  afraid  of  cows! — Or  of  any- 
thing! In  fact  I  love  danger  of  all  kinds!  I  posi- 
tively revel  in  danger !  That's  my  one  fault — if  it  is  a 
fault.  And  there  couldn't  be  a  prettier  dress  to  face 
dangers  and  hardships  in  than  a  Welsh  girl's.  I  won- 
der if  it  would  be  possible  to  get  a  Welsh  dress  in 
Southampton?    No,  there  isn't  time,  is  there? 

Scobell.  I'm  afraid  not.  [He  goes  to  comer  of 
table  up  stage.] 

[During  the  following  scene  he  gradually  gets 
into  window — she  gradually  follows  him 
up,  gets  on  the  right  side  of  table,  which 
is  on  casters;  she  unconsciously  pushes  it 
toward  the  window  until  she  has  hemmed 
him  in  the  lower  bay  of  the  window,  with 


HER  TONGUE  141 

the  tabic  diagnonally  across  from  middle 
of  window  to  the  comer  of  the  bay,  so 
that  he  cannot  escape.  This  is  done  very 
gradually  and  quite  unconsciously. 

Patty.  [After  a  -pause.']  What  do  the  women  gen- 
erally wear  in  Argentina? 

Scobell.  I  haven't  noticed. 

Patty.  But  they  must  wear  something!  I  do  think 
it's  so  charming  when  the  women  of  a  country  adopt 
some  distinctive  national  costume,  like  the  Tyrolese  or 
the  Welsh.  I  believe  that  some  of  the  Tyrolese  women 
wear  a  dress  that  is — a — well,  it's  really  a  masculine 
dress.  I  couldn't  do  that!  I  loathe  masculine  women, 
don't  you? 

Scobell.  Yes. 

Patty.  I  think  that  when  once  a  woman  goes  out  of 
her  own  proper  sphere  and  tries  to  be  a  man — well,  she 
doesn't  succeed,  does  she? 

Scobell.  No. 

Patty.  When  a  woman  has  so  many  attractions  of 
her  own,  why  should  she  go  out  of  her  own  proper 
sphere  and  try  to  be  a  man?    Why  should  she? 

Scobell.  I  don't  know. 

Patty.  I  think  I  shall  introduce  a  national  style  of 
dress  into  Argentina.  What  are  the  shops  like  in  Ar- 
gentina ? 

Scobell.  There  aren't  any  shops  where  I  live. 

Patty.  No  shops? 

Scobell.  It  takes  three  weeks  to  get  to  the  nearest 
town. 

Patty.  Oh,  how  delightful!  No  shops!  It  must  be 
quite  in  the  country. 

Scobell.  [Looking  at  the  steamship   ticket  in  his 


142  HER  TONGUE 

hand.]  They've  made  a  mistake  in  the  number  of  my 
cabin. 

Patty.  Have  they  ?  How  careless  of  them  !  I  often 
ask  myself  how  can  people  be  so  stupid?  How  do  you 
account  for  there  being  so  many  stupid  people  in  the 
world?  [He  has  been  fidgetting — a  pause.]  What's 
the  climate  of  Argentina?    Is  it  very  hot? 

Scobell.  Rather — in  the  summer. 

Patty.  And  I  suppose  the  winters  are  rather  cold? 
I  am  so  fond  of  the  winter!  I  thmk  there's  nothing 
more  delightful  than  to  gather  round  the  fire  on  a 
winter  evening,  while  the  logs  are  crackling  on  the 
hearth,  and  tell  ghost  stories.  I  know  one  or  two  aw- 
fully good  ghost  stories.  Do  you  know  at  times  I  feel 
I  must  frighten  people !  I  do !  I  can't  help  it !  I 
feel  positively  wicked!  I  made  a  whole  party  sit  up 
at  the  Vicar's  the  other  night.  The  Bishop  said  I  made 
him  feel  quite  uncomfortable.  The  dear  Bishop!  It 
was  too  bad  of  me  to  frighten  him,  wasn't  it? 

Scobell.  Yes. 

Patty.  Are  you  fond  of  ghost  stories? 

Scobell.  Not  very. 

Patty.  Then  I  shall  tell  you  one.  Not  now — but 
one  of  these  days  I  shall  suddenly  begin  a  creepy, 
creepy  blood-curdler  that  I  reserve  for  my  special 
friends;  and  before  you  expect  it,  I  shall  make  you 
positively  shudder  all  over !  Positively  shudder !  Now, 
don't  say  I  didn't  warn  you. 

Scobell.  I've  got  to  change  my  ticket. 

Patty.  But  I  don't  know  after  all  if  I  don't  prefer 
the  summer.  The  delightful  long  evenings !  But  really 
I  can  make  myself  happy  and  contented  anywhere. 
Nothing  ever  puts  me  out.     If  things  go  wrong,  I 


HER  TONGUE  143 

simply  smile,  and  say  all  the  pleasant  things  I  can 
think  of,  and  wait  till  everything  comes  all  right  again ! 
[A  longish  pawse.]  We  didn't  settle  what  dresses  I 
ought  to  get.  And  then,  of  course,  there  are  mother's 
dresses  to  think  of  as  well  as  my  own. 

Scobell.  You  have  a  mother? 

Patty.  Yes,  didn't  I  tell  you?  I  must  have  forgot- 
ten it.  How  I  wish  you  could  have  met  her!  But,  of 
course,  there  will  be  plenty  of  opportunities,  won't 
there?  [Pause — he  doesn't  reply.]  You  will  like  her 
so  much.  [Pause.]  Everybody  says  I'm  exactly  what 
she  was  when  she  was  twenty-five.  [Scobell  is  fidget- 
ting  and  looking  out  of  window.  By  this  time  she  has 
pushed  the  table  against  the  window  so  that  he  is  quite 
hemmed  in  at  the  lower  bay  of  the  window.]  I  must 
tell  you  mother  is  rather  a  gay  old  creature. 

Scobell.  Indeed! 

Patty.  Yes.  I  rather  pride  myself  on  my  good 
temper  and  my  constant  flow  of  animal  spirits.  [Silly 
little  laugh.]  Don't  you  think  I  have  rather  a  good 
supply  of  animal  spirits? 

Scobell.  Yes. 

Patty.  I'm  nowhere  beside  mother!  She's  simply 
wonderful !  Always  the  life  and  soul  of  any  company 
she's  in.  [Pause.]  You've  been  rather  dull  and  lonely 
out  in  Argentina,  Fred  tells  me? 

Scobell.  Not  very. 

Patty.  Nobody  could  be  dull  and  lonely  for  one 
moment  where  mother  is.  What  amusements  are  there 
in  Argentina? 

Scobell.  There  aren't  any  amusements. 

Patty.  No  amusements? 

Scobell.  Not  where  I  live. 


144  HER  TONGUE 

Patty.  Mother  is  so  fond  of  society,  and  seeing 
everything,  and  going  everywhere,  and  knowing  every- 
body. 

Scobell.  Argentina  won't  suit  her  at  all. 

Patty.  Oh,  but  of  course,  if  I  went  to  Argentina  it 
would  be  impossible  for  me  to  leave  my  mother  behind ! 
I  simply  couldn't  do  it !  She  is  such  a  dear !  Always 
ready  to  make  herself  pleasant  and  agreeable  wherever 
she  is.  And  she  has  such  a  fund  of  anecdotes  and 
recollections!  And  so  witty  and  humorous!  I  love 
wit  and  humour  in  a  woman,  don't  you? 

Scobell.  Yes. 

Patty.  I'd  far — oh  far,  rather  a  woman  were  witty 
and  humorous  than  merely  beautiful,  wouldn't  you? 
Because  beauty  itself  so  soon  fades,  and  when  a  woman 
has  beauty  and  nothing  else,  well,  it's  like  putting  all 
the  goods  in  the  shop  window,  isn't  it?  And  the  mo- 
ment she  loses  her  good  looks — poor  creature!  what  is 
she?  Just  a  mere  bit  of  faded  finery  to  be  thrown 
aside.  I  don't  wonder  that  men  quickly  tire  of  some 
women,  do  you? 

Scobell.  No. 

Patty.  Nobody  could  tire  of  mother!  And  she's  so 
ready  at  repartee — we  had  my  Sunday  school  children 
to  tea  on  our  lawn,  and  we  invited  the  new  curate,  and 
after  tea  he  took  the  garden  broom  and  was  sweeping 
up  the  litter  the  children  had  made.  "Ah !"  my  mother 
said,  "new  brooms  sweep  clean!"  [Scobell  doesn't 
laugh. ,]  Just  like  that!  Quite  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment!  "New  brooms  sweep  clean!"  [Scobell 
doesn't  laugh,  but  stands  quite  still — an  awkward 
pause.  She  explains  rather  sharply.}  He  was  quite  a 
new  curate,  and  so  she  said  "New  brooms  sweep  clean." 


HER  TONGUE  145 

[A  long  pause.]  You  will  like  my  mother.  [ScobelJj 
has  been  showing  signs  of  restlessness,  and  glancing 
out  of  window  at  the  ship's  funnels.  After  a  pause.] 
Is  anything  the  matter? 

Scobell.  No.  I  really  must  see  about  my  ticket. 
[Making  a  slight  effort  to  push  the  table  from  the 
window.  ] 

Patty.  Yes,  but — you — haven't — er — a 

Scobell.  [Taking  out  his  watch.]  I'd  better  get 
across  at  once. 

Patty.  But  Minnie  said  you  particularly  wished  to 
see  me. 

Scobell.  [A  little  lamely.]  I  thought  I  should  like 
to  have  the  pleasure  of — of  saying  good-bye. 

Patty.  Good-bye?  But  you  sent  for  me  to  come 
from  Southsea.     I  don't  understand.     Please  explain. 

Scobell.  I  was  agreeably  impressed  the  other  night 
at  the  ball,  and  I  said  so  to  Fred  last  night — and — in 
his  smoking-room 

Patty.  Yes.    Well? 

Scobell.  And  on  the  strength  of  that  Mrs.  Bracy 
telegraphed ■ 

Patty.  Yes,  there's  her  telegram.  [Producing  tele- 
gram, giving  it  to  him.]  "Your  whole  future  at  stake — 
most  important  you  have  an  understanding  with  him 
before  he  sails?"    Read  it! 

Scobell.  I'm  afraid  Mrs.  Bracy  has  been  in- 
discreet  

Patty.  Indiscreet!  But  you  said  yourself  that  you 
were  agreeably  impressed  by  me.  [Pause.  She  speaks 
very  sharply.]  Did  you  or  did  you  not  say  you  were 
agreeably  impressed  by  me? 

Scobell.  At  the  ball — yes. 


146  HER  TONGUE 

Patty.  Yes.  Well  ?  And  that  you  would  like  to  see 
me?  [Scobell  does  not  reply.  She  speaks  again  very 
sharply.]  Did  you  or  did  you  not  say  you  wished  to 
see  me? 

Scobell.  Yes. 

Patty.  Yes.    Well?    Why  did  you  wish  to  see  me? 

ScoBELii.  [Lamely.]  I  thought  we  might  begin  a 
disinterested  friendship 

Patty.  [With  a  little  shriek,  getting  more  and  more 
angry,  nearly  crying  with  vexation  and  losing  control 
over  herself.]  Disinterested  friendship !  You  couldn't 
suppose  I  should  hurry  over  from  Southsea  for  a  dis- 
interested friendship! 

Scobell.  I'm  very  sorry  if  I  have  caused  you  any 
inconvenience. 

Patty.  Inconvenience!  I  haven't  had  any  break- 
fast! And  I  had  a  most  pressing  invitation  to  the 
Barringers'.  They're  quite  the  nicest  people  in  South- 
sea — one  meets  everybody  there.  Instead  of  that  you 
bring  me  over  here  [taking  up  the  telegram  which  he 
has  put  on  the  table]  on  the  distinct  understanding  that 
you  intended — I  don't  understand  your  conduct,  Mr. 
Scobell.  Will  you  please  give  me  some  explanation  of  it? 

Scobell.  [Making  a  gentle  movement  to  push  the 
table  back  so  that  he  can  get  out.]  I  must  be  getting  to 
my  boat. 

Patty.  Surely,  Mr.  Scobell,  you  will  not  dare  to 
leave  me  in  this  terrible  uncertainty.  Before  you  go 
on  board  we  must  please  have  a  thorough  understand- 
ing. [Seats  herself  resolutely  at  table.  Pause.]  Will 
you  or  will  you  not  please  give  me  some  explanation  of 
your  conduct? 


HER  TONGUE  147 

Scobell.  [Gelling  angry  and  desperate.]  But  my 
boat  sails — will  you  kindly  let  me  pass? 

Patty.  Not  that  I  wish  to  force  myself  upon  you! 
Please  don't  think  that.  I  could  never  stoop  to  make 
myself  cheap  to  any  man !  I'm  not  driven  to  that 
necessity  !  No  !  No  !  A  thousand  times  no  !  It's  simply 
that  my  womanly  pride  and  delicacy  have  been  cruelly 
outraged.  It's  simply  that  I  owe  it  to  my  sense  of 
what  is  due  to  an  English  lady  not  to  be  dragged  over 
from  Southsea  without  any  breakfast,  and  then  made 
the  sport  of  your  caprice,  while  you  sail  off  to  Argen- 
tina, utterly  oblivious  of  your  honour,  and  of  the  woman 
you  have  entangled  and  deserted ! 

Scobell.  Take  it  easy,  my  dear  lady — take  it  easy ! 

Patty.  [Shriek.]  My  dear  lady!  My  dear  lady! 
You  first  inveigle  me  here  and  then  you  insult  me.  Oh, 
if  I  had  known !  Mr.  Scobell,  surely  you  will  not  be 
so  ungentlemanly — so  unmanly — but  there  will  come  a 
time  when  you  will  vainly  remember  how  recklessly  you 
threw  away  the  happiness  that  is  still  within  your  grasp, 
if  you  only  choose  to  pick  it  up !  [Suddenly  bursting 
out.]  Oh!  What  have  I  said?  What  have  I  said? 
Oh!  [With  a  long  wail  she  bursts  into  tears,  flings 
herself  over  the  table  and  sobs.] 

[Scobell,  very  imcomfortable,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  watches  her  with  grow- 
ing embarrassment. 

Scobell.  My  dear  Miss  Hanslope,  I'm  terribly 
sorry ■ 

Patty.  [Wailing  from  the  table.]  If  you're  truly 
sorry,  you  can  do  no  less,  as  a  gentleman,  than  make 
amends. 

Scobell.  Will  you  please  let  me  pass  out? 


148  HER  TONGUE 

Patty.  Then  you're  prepared  to  take  the  conse- 
quences? 

Scobell.  Certainly. 

Patty.  Very  well !  Mr.  Bracy  will  be  here  in  a  mo- 
ment to  demand  a  full  explanation  of  your  conduct. 

Scobell.  I'll  write  him  about  it.  Meantime,  my 
lawyers  are  Beame  and  Son,  Gray's  Inn  Square.  If  you 
have  any  claim  against  me,  please  put  your  solicitors 
in  communication  with  them.  [Very  decidedly.]  Now, 
may  I  pass? 

Patty.  [Magnificently.']  No!  How  could  you  sup- 
pose that  I  could  degrade  myself  by  making  a  market 
of  my  most  sacred  feelings  and  bringing  them  into  a 
Court  of  Law !  No,  the  injuries  you  have  done  me 
cannot  be  paid  by  money — you  have  wounded  my  finest 

feelings !    You  have  trampled  upon 

[Enter  Minnie  and  Fred  at  back.] 

Fred.  Heigho!    What's  the  matter? 

Patty.  [Continuing  her  harangue  to  Scobell.] 
Yes,  I  refuse  you!  In  the  first  place  our  slight  ac- 
quaintance gave  you  no  right  whatever  to  make  me  an 
offer  of  marriage!  And  I'm  sure  the  more  I  knew  of 
you  the  less  I  should  be  inclined  to  accept  you ! 

Fred.  What's  the  matter? 

Patty.  [Losing  her  self-control,  bursting  into  a  fit  of 
rage.]  I've  never  been  so  insulted  in  my  life!  [To 
Minnie  and  Fred.]  How  could  you  bring  me  over 
from  Southsea  only  to  be  annoyed  and  insulted  by  this 
man? 

Fred.  Lorry!    What  has  he  done,  Pat? 

Patty.  He  has  called  me  the  most  insulting  names ! 

Fred.  What  names?     [Looking  at  Scobell.] 

Patty.  He  said — he  said — he  said — "Take  it  easy, 


HER  TONGUE  149 

my  dear  lady!"  My  dear  lady!  I've  never  been  ad- 
dressed in  such  a  manner  before !  Minnie,  here  is  your 
telegram !  Now  I  want  you  both  to  read  that  over  care- 
fully, and  say  whether  it  doesn't  amount  to  an  offer  of 
marriage.  And  then  before  you  allow  him  to  sail  for 
Argentina,  I  want  you  to  ask  him  plainly  whether  he 
intends  to  carry  out  his  promise,  or — where  is  he? 
[She  has  turned  her  back  to  Scobell  to  talk  to  Minnie 
and  Fred.] 

[Meanwhile  Scobell  has  crept  under  the  table 
and  emerges  from  under  it  on  all  fours. 

Fred.  [To  Scobell.]  Lorry,  we'd  better  clear  this 
up,  eh? 

Scobell.  [Getting  up.]  I'll  write  you  fully.  Good- 
bye, old  fellow. 

Fred.  [Embarrassed.]  You'll  stay  and  have  some 
lunch. 

Scobell.  Haven't  a  moment.  I  must  catch  this  boat. 
Good-bye,  Mrs.  Bracy! 

Minnie.  Good-bye?     But  can't  you  explain? 

Patty.  [Shrieks  out  to  Fred.]  You  surely  won't  let 
him  leave  this  room  without  an  explanation? 

Scobell.  [Hurrying  off.]  Take  it  easy,  my  dear 
lady !    Take  it  easy ! 

[Hurries  off. 

Fred.  You  seem  to  have  muddled  it  again,  Pat ! 

Patty.  It  was  all  your  fault,  and  Minnie's  for  bring- 
ing mo  over!  [Waiter  enters  with  luncheon  ready  laid; 
puts  it  on  table,  pulls  the  table  out  from  window.] 
How  could  you  suppose  that  I  should  go  over  to  a 
wretched  country  like  Argentina,  where  there  aren't 
any  shops — after  all  the  really  good  offers  I've  refused ! 


150  HER  TONGUE 

You  might  have  had  more  consideration  for  rue !    And 
without  a  mouthful  of  breakfast! 

Fred.  Well,  here's  some  lunch! 

Patty.  And  the  Barringers  sent  me  such  a  pressing 
invitation  to  their  croquet  party!  [Looks  at  her 
watch.]  I  shall  just  have  time  to  get  back  to  Southsea. 
[Puts  on  her  hat.] 

Minnie.  You'd  much  better  stay  and  have  some 
lunch. 

Patty.  No,  I  can  get  some  sandwiches  somewhere.  I 
must  go.  They'll  expect  me.  I  mustn't  disappoint 
them !  [To  Waiter.]  When  does  the  next  train  start 
for  Southsea?  Come  and  get  me  a  cab  and  a  Brad- 
shaw.  At  once!  Please!  Good-by,  Minnie!  Good- 
by,  Fred!  Your  friend,  Mr.  Scobell,  must  be  mad! 
[To  Waiter.]  Please — a  cab  and  some  sandwiches 
and  my  waterproof  and  umbrella!  And  a  Bradshaw! 
Where  are  my  gloves?  [Exit  at  back.]  Is  there  any- 
body then  who  can  get  me  a  cab  and  some  biscuits? — 
I  never  was  so  insulted — and  a  Bradshaw — do  you 
hear? — a  cab  and  some  biscuits  or  sandwiches! — or  any- 
thing to  eat !  and  my  gloves ! 

[Exit  down  passage.] 

[Fred  shrugs  his  shoulders,  points  to  the 
lunch.  Minnie  and  Fred  sit  down  to  the 
table  which  Waiter  has  pulled  out  mto 
the  room.  Patty's  voice  is  heard  dying 
away  along  the  passage. 

CURTAIN. 


GRACE  MARY, 

A   Tragedy   in   the   Cornish   Dialect 

in  ONE  ACT 

The  dramatic  form,  the  local  setting  and  dialect,  and 
the  realistic  prose  treatment  employed  in  this  little 
play,  will  remove  it  from  any  chance  or  pretence 
of  comparison  with  the  great  imaginative  ballad, 
"Michael  Scott's  Wooing,"  which  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti  left  unwritten. 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED 

Nick  Pentargan 

Isaac  Roseveabb 

Luke  Jago 

Barzillai  Teague 

Peter  Hoblyn 

Joshua  Webber 

Grace  Mart  Roseveare 

Elizabeth  Teague 

Miners,  Peasants,  Fisher-People 

Scene:  The  Cliff  Edge  of  the  North  Cornish  Coast 
Between  "All  Travellers'  Inn"  and  Isaac  Rose- 
veare's  Cottage. 

Time:  A  summer  night  early  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury. 


GRACE  MARY 

Scene:  The  exterior  of  "All  Travellers9  Inn"  on  the 
North  Cornish  coast.  Summer  night.  Misty  moon- 
light. The  inn  is  on  the  right  with  a  covered  shel- 
ter outside,  in  which  are  placed  rough  tables,  toilh 
forms  on  each  side.  On  the  tables  are  tankards 
and  mugs.  The  inn  window  looks  out  on  the  shel- 
ter and  is  open.  A  bright  light  from  the  inn  il- 
lumines the  tables  and  the  persons  seated  there. 
The  door  of  the  inn  is  down  stage  left,  and  also 
opens  into  the  shelter.  Over  the  shelter  is  a 
weather-beaten  signboard  with  "All  Travellers'  Inn, 
by  Barzillai  Teague"  painted  on  it.  On  the  left 
of  the  stage  is  Isaac  Roseveare's  cottage,  set  di- 
agonally; its  windoivs  look  upon  stage;  the  win- 
dow of  Grace  Mary's  room,  on  the  top  floor,  is 
shut,  and  the  curtains  drawn  apart.  The  window 
is  lighted.  The  door  of  the  cottage  is  approached 
by  a  short  flight  of  stone  steps  at  the  corner  of  the 
house;  the  door  being  round  the  comer  is  not 
seen.  At  back  of  stage  is  the  cliff  line,  and  at 
a  great  distance  below  is  the  sea,  the  horizon 
line  being  scarcely  discernible.  Growing  up  from 
the  cliff  is  a  solitary  tree  with  its  branches  blown 
landwards,  its  trunk  rooted  in  the  cliff  beneath  the 
edge.  Discover  Elizabeth  Teague  clearing  up 
tankards,    mugs,    etc.,    from    tables.      Barzillai 

153 


154  GRACE  MARY 

Teague,  a  little  lame,  bloated,  jovial  innkeeper, 
hobbles  on  right. 

Eliz.  Barzillai,  you've  been  drenking  again. 
Barz.  Elizabeth,  answer  me  this,  ain't  ut  better  to 
be  drunk  nor  thirsty? 

Eliz.  Ef  yu  must  git  drunk,  why  caan't  'ee  git  drunk 
upon  your  awn  liquor  an'  your  awn  premises? 

Barz.  Elizabeth,  my  liquor  is  gashly,  an  yu'me  on  my 
premises.  An  the  man  that  gits  drunk  in  the  company 
of  hez  wife,  ez  no  better  than  a  baistly  fule.  Naw,  my 
dear  sawl,  when  I  do  git  drunk  I've  got  better  taste 
nor  to  get  drunk  with  you,  Elizabeth.  I  du  ehuse  my 
company. 

Eliz.  [Regarding  him.]  An  whose  company  ev  'ee 
bin  drenkin'  in  to-day? 

Barz.  Braave  company,  sure  enough,  Elizabeth. 
Eliz.  Who's  then? 

Barz.  I've  been  drenkin'  with — Shaan't  tell  'ee,  Eliz- 
abeth. 

[Grace  Mart  opens  her  window  in  the  cot- 
tage, candle  in  hand,  looks  out.    She  is  a 
very  pale,  delicate  girl,  about  twenty,  with 
a    wasted,    unearthly    look    in    her   face. 
Barzillai  points  her  out  to  Elizabeth. 
Grace  Mary.   [Peering  out  into  the  darkness  for  a 
few  moments,  calls  gently.]     Nick !    Are  'ee  theere,  my 
awn  dear  swateheart? 

[Waits  a  moment,  listens,  and  then  withdraws 

from  window,  draws  the  curtains  together, 

leaves  the  window  open.     A  few  seconds 

after,  the  light  disappears  from  the  cur- 

\  tains. 


GRACE  MARY  155 

Eliz.  Aw,  poor  sawl,  her  du  graw  moar  an'  moar 
like  a  sperrit  every  day. 

Barz.  Hur  did  look  for  oal  the  world  as  ef  hur  had 
just  coined  up  from  the  dead,  didn't  hur? 

Eliz.  Hur  ev  niver  held  up  hur  head  since  Nick 
Pentargan  went  away. 

Barz.  Well,  hur  can  hauld  it  up  now,  for  Nick 
Pentargan  ev  cum  hum  agen. 

Eliz.  What? 

Barz.  I've  been  with  un  oal  the  afternune. 

Eliz.  And  that's  the  reason  as  yu'me  in  this  baistly 
staate. 

Barz.  Hauld  thy  tongue,  Elizabeth.  Tez  only  fules 
that  don't  know  the  valee  an'  happiness  of  gitting 
drunk  that  fly  out  against  us — philosophers. 

[Grace  Mary  enters  from  cottage,  as  if  rest- 
lessly, goes  up  right,  looks  off,  crosses  to 
left,  looks  off,  comes  up  to  them  dis- 
quieted. 

Barz.  I  hope  you'me  better  to-night,  Grace  Mary. 

Grace  Mary.  Is  there  any  tidings  down  along? 

Barz.  Naw.    Naw  tidings  down  along. 

Grace  Mary.  Are  'ee  sure? 

Barz.  Tidings  consarning  of  who,  Grace  Mary? 

Grace  Mary.  Consarning  of  somewan  that  left  here- 
abouts six  months  agone. 

Barz.  [Pause.]  Naw.  [Pause.]  What  makes  'ee 
ax? 

Grace  Mary.  Because  oal  day  long,  I've  had  a 
sooart  of  a  drawing  pain  here — [with  her  hand  upon 
her  heart] — as  if  he  wur  a  drawing  me  toward  un. 

Barz.  How  so? 

Grace  Mary.  Like  as  if  I  wur  aslape,  and  heerd  un 


156  GRACE  MARY 

a  calling  out  to  me  for  to  come  and  help  un — and  I 
couldn't  neither  answer  un,  nor  go  to  un,  'cause  theere 
was  like  mountains  atop  of  me. 

Barz.  Aw  !  'Tis  straange,  sure  enough !  But  don't 
'ee  think  anything  more  about  un,  theer's  a  dear 
maiden,  or  you'll  never  be  braave  and  strong  agen. 

Grace  Mary.  I  shall  never  git  strong  again  till  I 
du  know  for  sure  that  oal's  well  weth  him.  [Goes  to 
cottage,  comes  back  very  entreatingly.]  Would  'ee  be 
so  gude  as  to  go  down  along  to  the  village,  and  ax  if 
theere's  any  tidings  of  un.  I  knaw  'tis  fulish  of  me, 
but  ye  doan't  knaw  the  ache  as  I've  got  about  heere. 

[Putting  her  hand  on  her  heart. 

Eliz.  Tell  her,  Barzillai. 

[Exit  Elizabeth  into  inn.    Grace  Mary  looks 
at  Barzillai;  he  looks  down. 

Grace  Mary.  [Suddenly.']  He's  heere!  I  knawed 
it!    You've  seed  un?    Wheere? 

Barz.  Down  to  Camelford. 

Grace  Mary.  [Frantic  with  joy.]  How  does  he 
look  ?  Did  he  ax  after  me  ?  What  did  ye  tell  un  about 
me?  Is  he  coming  here?  He'd  niver  laive  thaise 
paarts  without  coming  to  see  me? 

Barz.  Bide  a  bit  quiet  now,  there's  a  dear  maiden, 
or  I  waun't  tell  'ee  nort. 

Grace  Mary.  Tell  me  oal.  Is  he  well?  [Very  softly 
and  searchingly.]  Ev  he  departed  from  hez  evil 
coorses? 

Barz.  Well [Looks  uncomfortable. 

Grace  Mary.  Daun't  'ee  desave  me  now ! 

Barz.  He  wor  oaless  a  bit  wild,  and  he  oaless  will 
be.    Tez  the  natur  of  un. 

Grace  Mary.  He  wur  drenking? 


GRACE  MARY  157 

Barz.  I  hope  theer's  no  gurt  harm  in  a  drap,  wheere 
the  liquor's  gude. 

Grace  Mary.  Wheere  did  you  laive  un  ? 

Barz.  He  wur  coming  tooards  the  village. 

Grace  Mary.  To  see  me? 

Barz.  Not  azackly. 

Grace  Mary.  What  vor  then? 

Barz.  Ho  wur  gwine  to  seek  Luke  Jago. 

Grace  Mary.  What  vor?  I've  nivver  gived  un  cause 
for  anger  agen  Luke. 

Barz.  Well,  'tis  knawn  down  along  that  Luke  did 
persuade  your  vaather  to  part  Nick  and  you,  cos  Luke 
did  want  'eo  for  hezzelf. 

Grace  Mary.  Iss — an  ivver  since  Nick  went  away 
Luke  ev  been  spaiking  evil  about  un  to  vaather.  I 
udn't  wed  Luke  Jago,  no,  not  if  theere  weren't  another 
chap  in  the  world.  An'  Nick  du  knaw  ut;  he  du  knaw 
that  my  haart  ud  break  avore  it  ud  ev  a  thought  as 
worn't  for  him. 

Barz.  Well,  theere's  bad  blood  tween  un  and  Luke; 
iss  sure,  vor  Nick  du  knaw  'tis  Luke  as  parted  'ee — 
that's  oal  I  can  tell  'ee.  [Going  into  inn. 

Grace  Mary.  I  caan't  abide  heere  and  knaw  he's  so 
nigh  me  without  spaking  to  un.  I  mus'  come  to  'ee, 
Nick. 

[Going  off,  above  cottage,  left,  meets  Isaac 
Roseveare,  who  enters. 

Isaac.  [A  stem  old  Cornish  Methodist.]  Wheere  be 
gwine,  Grace  Mary?  [Turns  to  Barzillal]  You've 
tould  her  that  devil's  cheeld  is  cummed  home  agen? 

Barz.  Naw,  Isaac — 'twur  her  awn  haart  as  tould 
her.    Thee's  best  laive  bur  to  go  to  un. 

[Exit  into  inn. 


158  GRACE  MARY 

Isaac.  You  wor  gwine  to  seek  Nick  Pentargan? 

Grace  Mary.  Iss,  vaather. 

Isaac.  You  did  promise  to  give  un  up  for  ivver. 

Grace  Mary.  I  didn't  promise  I  udn't  see  un  an* 
spake  to  un. 

Isaac.  Grace,  thy  kaart  is  longing  vor  un  still. 

Grace  Mary.  I  caan't  help  ut,  vaather. 

Isaac.  Would  'ee  wed  a  drunkard,  a  swearer,  a 
loose-liver,  a  castaway? 

Grace  Mary.  Daun't  'ee  caal  un  hard  naames.  Tent 
ez  fault.  Sims  us  ef  a  wor  born  to  bad-luck.  Do  'ee 
caal  to  mind  what  his  hum  were  when  he  wur  a  cheeld ; 
hez  awn  mawther  ded  cv  no  pity  on  un,  an'  wished 
evil  on  un.    An'  ez  vaather  wur  an  evil  man 

Isaac.  Iss,  an'  hez  grandvaather.  The  Pentargans 
wer  oaless  evil-doers.  An'  why  does  thy  haart  cling 
to  un  continually? 

Grace  Mary.  I  caen't  tell  'ee  why.  The  moar  wicked 
an'  miserable  Nick  ez,  the  moar  he  du  seem  to  caal  vor 
my  pity  an'  luv.  I  du  veel  vor  un  like  es  ef  I  wer  ez 
mawther,  an'  he  wer  helpless  an'  stretching  out  ez  arms 
to  me — I  du  veel  I  must  go  to  un. 

Isaac.  What?! 

Grace  Mary.  You  du  knaw  tez  not  contrariness  with 
me.  I  ev  allays  obeyed  'ee,  and  I  allays  will  till  the 
end  of  ut. 

Isaac.  God  bless  'ee,  my  dearie.  I  knaw  tez  thy 
haart,  an'  not  thy  will  that  loves  that  devil's  cheeld. 

Grace  Mary.  Iss,  tez  my  haart,  and  maybe  my  will 
too. 

Isaac.  Let  un  aloan.  Let  un  answer  vor  hez  sins 
wheere  he's  accountable,  and  kape  out  of  our  path. 

Grace  Mary.     Aw,  vaather,  the  power  of  love  is 


GRACE  MARY  159 

wonderful.  There's  luv'  enow  in  my  haart  to  burn  up 
oal  (he  wickedness  in  Nick  Pentargan,  ef  a  wur  twenty 
times  the  devil's  cheeld ! 

Isaac.  What?! 

Grace  Mary.  Aw,  doan't  'ee  be  angry  with  me. 

Isaac.  Naw,  my  dear,  I  won't  be  angry  with  'ee. 

Grace  Mary.  I  du  feel  sartin  sure,  vaather,  that  if 
you  would  lev  us  wed,  I  could  saave  un,  vaather — tez 
hez  oanly  chaance.  Daun't  'ee  deny  me.  Tez  my  sawl 
as  shall  answer  for  ez. 

Isaac.  Then  thy  sawl  will  be  lost.  Tez  lies  that  a 
woman  can  saave  a  man.  A  man  must  save  hezzelf, 
if  a's  saved  at  oal.  An'  let  Nick  Pentargan  save 
hezzelf. 

Grace  Mary.  But  he  caen't ;  he'll  be  losted. 

Isaac.  So  be  it  then,  if  so  be  as  my  Grace  Mary 
en't  losted  with  un. 

Grace  Mary.    Aw,  daun't  'ee  part  us,  vaather! 

Isaac.  Harkee,  my  dear,  you'm  oal  I've  got  in  the 
woorld.  I  luv'  ee  more  than  oal  the  woorld.  I  would 
raather  see  thee  a  laying  dead  in  thee  bed  upsteers 
theere  [pointing  to  her  window]  than  wed  to  Nick 
Pentargan.  Now  plaise  yourself,  my  dearie,  an'  wed 
un  if  you  will ! 

Grace  Mary.  You  du  knaw,  vaather,  as  I've  oallus 
obeyed  'ee,  and  I  shall  obey  'ee  now. 

Isaac.  [Kisses  her.]  I  thank  God  for  giving  me  an 
obedient  cheeld.  Tez  gitting  late.  Come  indoors  and 
play  thy  music  to  me,  an'  we'll  forget  un. 

[Leading  her  to  the  door. 

Grace  Mary.  But,  vaather,  ef  Nick  should  come 
to-night,  you  wan't  forbid  me  to  spake  to  un? 

Isaac.    'Twould  do  nort  but  pain  thee,  my  dear.    Be 


160  GRACE  MARY 

my  braave  maiden,  and  promise  me  ef  Nick  comes  thee 
waun't  spake  to  un,  or  make  a  sign  to  un. 

Grace  Mary.  Vaather,  I  caen't.  If  Nick  do  come, 
the  very  haart  will  laip  out  of  my  body  to  meet  un. 

Isaac.  Ef  thy  eye  offend  thee,  pluck  it  out.  Ef  thy 
right  hand  offend  thee,  cut  it  off.  Tez  but  wan  stroke. 
Tez  thy  sawl,  thy  aim  dear  sawl  as  I  plaid  for. 

Grace  Mary.  But  Nick's  sawl — I  do  care  mooare 
for  hez  dear  sawl  nor  vor  my  awn. 

Isaac.  Theest  made  an  idol  of  un.  He  stands  'tween 
thy  God  and  thee. 

Grace  Mary.  Naw,  naw,  vaather. 

Isaac.  Iss,  iss.  Do  as  I  tell  'ee.  Do  as  I  command 
thee.  Naw,  naw,  I  daun't  command  thee,  I  intreat  thee. 
For  love  of  thy  dear  mawther  as  ev  gone  avore,  for 
haupe  of  seeing  her  agen  wheere  theere's  no  partin's, 
bring  thy  stubborn  haart  to  its  knees — make  it  obey 
thee.  Say  the  words  after  me:  "I  du  promise  thee, 
vaather,  ef  Nick  Pentargan  du  come  to-night" 

Grace  Mary.  "I  du  promise  'ee,  vaather,  if  Nick 
Pentargan  du  come  to-night" 

Isaac.  "I  will  not  spaik  to  un  wan  word" 


Grace  Mary.  "I  will  not  spaik  to  un  wan  word" 

Isaac.  "Or  make  any  sign  whatsomever" 

Grace  Mary.  "Or  make  any  sign  whatsomever" 

Isaac.  "Or  look  at  un,  or  think  on  un." 

Grace  Mary.  Not  think  on  un?    Aw,  vaather,  how 

can  I  help  ut? 

Isaac.  Tear  un  out  from  thee  haart!     Do  ut,  my 

dear,  and  be  at  peace.    Promise  after  me.    "I  will  not 

look  at  un,  or  think  one  thought  of  un,  of  my  aun  free 

will." 

Grace  Mary.  [With  great  effort.]    "I  will  not  look 


GRACE  MARY  161 

at  him,  or  think  one  thought  of  him — of  my  auu  free 
will."     I've  said  it,  vaather. 

Isaac.  An'  thou'll  do  ut? 

Grace  Mary.  So  vur  as  God  gives  me  graace. 

Isaac.  An'  lie  will.  Thee'll  be  in  great  peace  soon, 
my  dear. 

Grace  Mary.  Iss,  but  'twill  be  like  the  peace  of 
them  as  are  dead.  The  peace  of  well-doing  en't  so  calm 
and  quieting  as  the  peace  of  the  churchyard,  ez  ut, 
vaather? 

[Noise  of  riotous  laughing  and  shouting  heard 
off  left. 

Isaac.   [Looks  off.]     Go  indoors,  my  dear 

Grace  Mary.  Sims  I  heerd  hes  voice 

[Trying  to  look  off  right. 

Isaac.  [Stopping  her,  sternly.]  Thy  promise!  Go 
indoors,  an'  set  thyself  to  thy  music.  'Twill  drown  ez 
voice,  an'  'twill  drown  the  thought  of  un  out  of  thy 
mind.  [Burst  of  uproarious  laughter.]  Iss,  play  thy 
music — and — [very  solemnly.]  Remember  thy  promise. 
Thee  waun't  break  ut?  [With  great  earnestness. 

Grace  Mary.  [Same  tone  of  great  earnestness.]  No. 
I  shall  kape  ut,  vaather. 

[Another  riotous   burst  of  laughter  off  left. 
She  shows  pain.     She  goes  into  cottage. 
[Enter  Luke  Jago,  left.] 

Luke.  He's  coming  with  seven  worser  sperrits  nor 
hezzelf,  an'  a  du  swear  by  oal  that's  holy  as  he'll  make 
thee  aupen  thy  doors  to  un,  an'  laive  un  to  spaik  to  ez 
awn  dear  maid. 

Isaac.  Ez  maid  ?    A  du  call  her  ez  maid  ? 

Luke.  Iss,  and  a  du  swear  as  nort  shall  part  them. 
Isaac,  you  waun't  go  back  on  your  word  to  me?    I  du 


162  GRACE  MARY 

love  her  sore.     Isaac,  you  waun't  laive  her  wed  Nick 
Pentargan  ? 

Isaac.  Naw,  she  shall  nivver  wed  Nick  Pentargan — 
that  I  du  vow. 

Luke.  An'  maybe,  when  time  has  gone  by — her  haart 
ull  turn  from  un,  and  she'll  wed  me. 

Isaac.  That  shall  be  as  God  plaises. 
[Enter  left  Nick  Pentargan,  a  young  fellow  about 
thirty,  half -drunk,  wildly  excited,  at  the  head  of  a 
rabble,  among  whom  are  Peter  Hoblyn,  a  sailor, 
and  Joshua  Webber.  Isaac  and  Nick  stand  con- 
fronting each  other.  Pause.] 
Nick.  [Civilly.]     Gude  evenin',  Isaac. 

[Isaac  looks  at  him  sternly  and  then  goes  to- 
wards steps.    Nick  intercepts  him,  stands 
at  the  bottom  of  steps. 
Nick.   [Doffing  his  cap,  half -respectfully ,  half-mock- 
ingly,  with  great  politeness.]    Gude  evenin',  Isaac  Rose- 
veare.  [Isaac  makes  a  movement  to  pass  him. 

Nick.  [Mounts  one  or  two  steps,  in  a  fierce  tone.] 
Naw,  Isaac.  You  daun't  go  in  to  your  house  till  you've 
passed  the  time  o'  day  weth  me.  [Pause.]  Come  now, 
Isaac,  find  your  gude  manners,  and  wish  me  "Gude 
evenin'."  [Pause. 

Isaac.  [Calls  to  the  door.]  Grace  Mary.  Theere 
stans  a  man  at  my  door — you  du  knaw  who  tez.  Kape 
thy  promise,  my  dear.    Lock  my  door  in  ez  face. 

[Pause.     The  lock  turns.     Nick  shows  pain 

and  despair  for  some  moments,  then  pulls 

himself  together  with  a  defiant  air. 

Nick.   [Arms  akimbo,  planted  firmly  on  steps.]     Oal 

the  saame,  Isaac,  thou  shalt  pass  the  time  o'  day  with 

me  avore  I  let  thee  in,  aye,  that  thou  shalt,  ef  I  kape 


GRACE  MARY  163 

thee  waiting  heere  tell  'tis  time  for  us  boath  to  be 
judged,  an'  thou  du  go  up  along,  while  I — aw,  my 
sonnies — I  du  wonder  wheerc  the  devil  I  shall  go. 

[Grace  Mary's  voice  heard  singing  the  eve- 
ning hymn,  accompanied  by  an  accordion. 
Nick  shows  that  he  is  touched.     After  a 
line  of  the  hymn  the  voice  falters,  and 
breaks  down,  music  stopis. 
Isaac.   [Speaking    at    the    door.]      Ev    'ee   brokken 
down,  my  dear?    Try  again,  an'  God  give  thee  courage. 
Nick.  Isaac,  vor  hur  saake — spaik  a  paisible  word 
to  me. 

Isaac.   I  daun't  knaw  'ee,  Nick  Pentargan. 
Nick.  Sonnies,  do  'ee  go  inside,  an'  laive  me  to  ev 
a  word  or  two  weth  Isaac  aloane.    Oal  of  'ee. 

[The  men  go  into  the  inn,  except  Luke,  who 
stands  there. 
Nick.   [To  Luke.]     Dost  'ee  hear,  Luke  or  Judas, 
or  whatsomever  thy  naame  ez.     Thee'st  done  me  harm 
enow.     Tak  thyself  away — about  thy  business. 

[Luke  sneaks  into  the  inn  after  the  others. 
Nick  and  Isaac  are  left  alone. 
Nick.  Isaac,  thee  wouldn't  see  me  ruined  body  an' 
sawl. 

Isaac.  [Sternly.]     Daun't  I  tell  'ee,  I  daun't  knaw 
'ee. 
Nick.  Nay,  but  thou  shalt  knaw  me. 
Isaac.  Who  art  thee,  then? 
Nick.  I'm  the  devil's  cheeld  that  luv's  thy  daughter, 

an'  if  thee  daun't  laive  me  see  her,  and 

[Raises  his  arm  as  if  to  strike  Isaac. 
Isaac.  Would  'ee  strike  me? 
Nick.  Naw.    But  I  du  main  to  come  to  her. 


164.  GRACE  MARY 

Isaac.  Hur  ev  vowed  to  her  God  hur^ll  ev  nort  to 
do  weth  'ee. 

Nick.  Tez  'er  lips  ev  vowed.  Hur  haart  would 
nivver  du  ut. 

Isaac.  She'll  kape  her  word. 

Nick.  Naw,  thee'll  set  her  free  from  ut.  Hearkee, 
Isaac.  My  life,  my  immortal  sawl,  are  bound  up  weth 
hurs.  Ax  hur  if  ten't  so;  ax  if  there  en't  a  bond  be- 
tween hur  an'  me  that  God  ezzelf  ev  set  ez  sale  on,  an' 
can  niwer  be  broke  asunder. 

Isaac.   Tez  broke.    An'  thou  thyself  ev  broke  ut. 

Nick.  How? 

Isaac.  By  thy  awn  evil  life.  I  ded  promise  the 
maid  to  'ee  ef  thee  would  laive  thy  evil  ways,  and 
thee  didst  promise  to  du  ut.  How  did  thee  kape  thy 
word? 

Nick.  Ten't  no  fault  of  mine,  Isaac.  Thee  dost 
knaw  the  history  of  me,  an'  oal  of  us. 

Isaac.  Iss,  as  all  thy  vore-vaathers  ev  been,  so  wilt 
thou  be  to  the  end. 

Nick.  Naw,  Isaac.  Theere's  my  salvation  inside 
thy  doors.  Theere's  evil  in  me — I  knaw  ut  well. 
When  I'm  away  from  hur,  sims  to  me,  I'm  moast  oal 
evil.  But  when  I  du  come  anigh  to  hur,  hur  du  quicken 
the  gudeness  in  me  into  a  flame,  an'  I'm  moast  oal 
gude.  Isaac,  I've  a  come  back  to  hev  a  new  life  weth 
hur  vor  my  awn  dear  wife.  Daun't  'ee  part  us.  I'll 
change  from  thez  hour. 

Isaac.  I've  a  read  somewheere  about  the  leopard 
changing  ez  spots,  an'  the  Ethiopian  changing  ez  skin, 
but  I  daun't  believe  as  'twer  ivver  proved.  Hearken, 
Nick,  if  thee  du  waunt  to  wed  Grace  Mary,  thee  tek 
thyself  awaay  to  Africa,  an'  go  an'  bring  me  back  a 


GRACE  MARY  165 

leopard  with  hez  skin  changed  to  a  lamb's,  or  an 
Ethiopian  weth  ez  flesh  changed  to  be  white  like  wan 
ov  our  English  babes, — bring  either  wan  or  other  ov 
thaise  two  animals,  and  I'll  believe  then  that  ye  can 
do  good  ez  are  accustomed  to  do  evil;  I'll  believe  that 
a  devil's  cheeld  like  you  can  be  changed  into  an  angel 
of  light,  ef  you  wor  to  wed  my  Grace  Mary.  An'  I'll 
giv'  her  to  'ee.  But  I'll  niwer  give  her  to  'ee  till 
then,  so  help  me  God. 

[Turns  to  go.  Nick  shows  great  despair. 
Accordion  plays  again.  Nick  and  Isaac 
listen,  much  affected. 

Nick.  [In  low  tone,  great  despair.]  Then  tez  oal 
over  tween  hur  an'  me,  Isaac? 

Isaac.  Iss  sure.    Make  theeself  sure  of  that. 

[Going  up  steps. 

Nick.  Isaac [Approaching  him. 

Isaac.  Say  on. 

Nick.  [Very  quiet  and  appealingly.]  When  I  du 
laive  this  plaace  to-night,  I  du  laive  like  Cain,  a 
wanderer  an'  a  vagabond  on  the  vaace  of  the  earth. 
I  shall  niwer  see  hur  again,  or  spaik  to  hur,  or  hear 
hur  voice — but  I  shall  live  an'  wander  on,  an'  on,  an' 
on  for  years  an'  years,  with  nort  to  live  an'  wander 
for.  An'  my  haart  is  feerly  dead  within  me.  I  du 
wish  'twould  plaise  Heaven  to  mak'  an  end  of  me  beer 


an'  now- 


Isaac.  Aw,  how  can  thee  speak  sa  wickedly  ? 

Nick.  Cause  tez  how  I  du  feel.  Theere's  no  taste 
ef  life  left  in  me  withut  hur.  Sims  to  me  as  I  caan't 
vaace  it  now.  But  if  hur  tells  me  hurself  that  hur  ev 
cast  me  off,  then  I  du  promise  'ee,  Isaac,  I'll  give  thee 
no  vurther  trouble,  an'  I'll  niwer  see  thee  nor  hur 


166  GRACE  MARY 

agen,  but  I'll  drag  on  till  I  drop  into  my  grave.  But 
let  me  hear  from  hur  awn  dear  lips  as  hur  ev  giv' 
me  up. 

Isaac.  Naw.      'Twould    only    pain    hur.      Vor   hur 
saake  tek  thyself  off  when  I  du  bid  thee. 
Nick.  Naw.    Let  her  send  me  away,  an'  I'll  go. 
Isaac.  Naw,  thee  shaan't  see  hur. 
Nick.  Nay,  but  I  will. 

Isaac.   [Goes  up,  stands  at  top  of  steps,  knocks  at 

door.]    Grace  Mary.    Thee  du  knaw  who  is  outside.   Ef 

thee  will  kape  thy  vow  an'  save  thy  sawl,  unlock  thez 

door,  an'  the  very  next  moment  go  upstairs  to  thy  awn 

room,  an'  lock  thyself  in  so  that  no  wan   can  come 

anigh  thee.    But  ef  thou  wult  brake  thy  word,  an'  be 

losted   for  iwer,   bide   downstairs  an'   spaik   to   him 

agenst  thy  vow.    Chuse  between  thez  man  an'  thy  God. 

[Pause.     The  lock  is  heard  to  turn.     Isaac 

holds    the    door-handle    a    few    seconds. 

Nick  runs  eagerly  up  the  steps.    A  light 

appears  in  Grace  Mary's  room  above. 

Isaac  opens  the  door,  looks  eagerly  in, 

and  then  points  triumphantly  inside   to 

Nick.     Nick  shows  great  despair.     Exit 

Isaac  into   cottage,  shuts  door;  lock  is 

heard  to  turn  again.     Nick  comes  down 

the  steps  in  great  despair,  walks  up  and 

down  for  a  moment  or  two. 

Nick.  [Shouts   into   inn.]      Hi,   my   sonnies!     Hi, 

Barzillai — wheere  be   'ee   oal   of   ye?     Hi!   Hi!   Hi! 

[Enter  from  inn   the   drinkers,  Joshua,  Peter,  and 

Barzillai.] 
Barz.    What  ez  ut,  Nick? 
Nick.  I  du  want  to  ev  just  wan  pleasant  evenin' 


GRACE  MARY  167 

with  oal  of  ye  avore  I  du  laive  ye.    What'll  'ee  take, 
Peter? 
Peter.  Saame  as  avore,  Barzillai. 
Nick.  Josh? 
Joshua.  I  sez  ditto. 
Nick.  An'  you,  David? 

David.  I  caan't  du  better  I  spoase  nor  kape  to 
Plymouth  gin. 

Nick.  Not  ef  'ee  waant  to  send  thee  head  burning 
maazed  and  mad  like  mine.  Barzillai,  tek  the  orders 
vrom  oal. 

[Barzillai  takes  orders  and  then  goes  into 
inn. 
[Luke  Jago  enters  from  inn.] 
Nick.  Aw,  yu'me  theere,  Luke  Jago? 
Luke.  Iss. 

Nick.  Twer  yu  as  set  hur  vaather  again  me. 
Luke.    I  did  think  I  wer'  doing  Graace  Maary  a 
brave  gude  turn  to  kape  her  from  wedding  thee,  Nick. 
Nick.  Well,  ye've  done  ut.     Sit  ye  down.     [Points 
to  chair.]     What'll  ye  take  to  drink? 
Luke.  I  waun't  drink  weth  ye. 

Nick.  Yu  shall  drink  two  helths  weth  me  to-night 
avore  we  du  part.  Set  down,  or  I'll  force  thee,  an' 
pour  the  liquor  down  thy  droaat  an'  stop  the  lies  from 
coming  up  ut.  [Very  sternly  and  threateningly.]  Set 
down  when  I  tell  'ee!  [Luke  sits. 

[Barzillai  and  Elizabeth  enter  from  inn  with  liquor, 
which  guests  take.    Elizabeth  fills  glasses  up  with 
water.] 
Nick.  [To  Luke.]    What  will  'ee  take? 
Luke.  I  daun't  caare — what  thee  plaizes. 
Nick.  Barzillai,  do  'ee  bring  Luke  Jago  and  me  a 


168  GRACE  MARY 

double  portion  o'  Plymouth  gin — a  double  portion  vor 
Luke,  'cause  tez  ez  health  we'me  gwine  to  drenk.  An' 
a  double  portion  vor  me,  'cause  the  more  liquor  I  du 
drenk,  the  sooner  I  shall  forget  the  sweet  angel  that 
is  losted  to  me  vor  iwer. 

[Glancing  up  at  Grace  Mary's  window,  shows 
remorse;  a  gesture  of  throwing  it  off. 
Exit  Barzillai. 

Nick.  Wait  a  bit,  sonnies,  daun't  'ee  drenk  till  I  get 
my  liquor  an'  gie  'ee  the  toast.  Tez  the  helth  of  oal 
snakes,  an'  sly,  underhand,  mischief -making  varmin  as 
I  du  want  'ee  oal  to  drenk.  [Luke  rises  angrily. 

Nick.  Aw,  thee  dost  knaw  as  I  main  thee.  Sit 
down.    Sit  down,  I  tell  'ee.  [Luke  sits,  slowly. 

[Enter  Barzillai  with  two  glasses  nearly  filled  with 
spirits,  and  a  decanter  of  water.] 

Nick.  [Takes  his  up.]  A  double  portion!  Tez 
gude. 

Barz.  Tbee'st  better  put  some  water  long  weth  ut, 
Nick.     Tez  a  powerful  sperrut. 

Nick.  Daun't  I  tell  'ee  I  want  to  drown  my  thoughts 
so  deep — [glancing  in  agony  at  window] — so  deep  that 
they'll  nivver  rise  up  agen.  Now,  my  sonnies,  heere's  to 
oal  sichy  sly  snakes  as  Luke  Jago.  [To  Luke,  threat- 
eningly.]    Drenk  when  I  tell  'ee. 

[Luke  drinks.  Nick  tosses  his  off  at  one 
gulp. 

Nick.  That's  braave.  Drenk  it  oal  up.  Oal  of  ye. 
I  du  start  awaay  frum  heereabouts  to-morrow  morn — 
[speaking  the  words  at  the  open  window] — an'  none 
of  ye  wan't  nivver  see  me  again  [calling  up  at  window.] 
An'  I  du  want  ye  oal  to  wish  me  luck  on  my  journey. 

Barz.  Whichey  way  be  gwine,  Nick? 


GRACE  MARY  169 

Nick.  I'm  gwine  strait  hum  to  my  vaather  Nick.  So 
eumraades  oal,  put  a  braave  vaaee  on  ut,  an'  giv'  me  a 
comfortable  start  on  my  travels.  [Pointing  down.]  — 
Luke  Jago,  I  towld  'ee  ye  should  drenk  twice  weth  me 
avore  we  parted.  I  rackon  yu'll  be  plaised  to  drenk 
to  my  sawl's  destruction  and  ruin,  waun't  'ee? 

Luke.  [Venomously.]     Iss,  with  oal  my  haart. 

[A  long  moan  from  Grace  Mary's  window. 

Nick.  [Suddenly  runs  to  window  with  a  cry  of  com- 
punction.] Naw,  naw,  my  dear  angel,  I  daun't  main 
ut !    Spaik  wan  word  to  me,  my  awn  swaithaart ! 

[Pause. 

Luke.  Caal  a  little  louder !  [Pause.]  Mayhap  bur's 
deaf  or  aslaip. 

Nick.  Grace  Mary,  my  haart's  brokken !  I'm  feer 
dying  for  a  sight  ov  'ee.  Ef  you've  promised  you 
waun't  spaik,  do  'ee  put  yer  hand  in  token  yu  forgev 
me.    Dost  'ee  heer? 

Luke.  Laive  off  thy  clacketing,  an'  tek  theeself  away, 
thee  dog  in  the  manger. 

Nick.  Grace  Mary,  spaik  to  me !  Awnly  wan  word  I 
du  beg  of  'ee,  my  swait,  to  shut  thez  eer  chap's  mouth. 

Luke.  Tek  a  drop  o'  liquor  to  clear  thy  droat,  an' 
then  caal  out  agen! 

Nick.  Spaik,  my  dear — I  du  knaw  yez  awnly  on 
the  other  side  of  the  curtains — an'  ye  can  heer  ivvery 
word  I'm  spaiking.  Won't  'ee  jest  show  yezzel  vor 
but  one  momint. 

Luke.  [Laughs.]  Hur  ev  thrawn  'ee  over,  like  the 
gude-fur-nort  that  thee  art.  Hui^s  done  with  'ee,  an' 
hur'll  niwer  cum  to  thee,  no,  not  ef  thee  dost  stan' 
theere  for  siven  yeer ! 

Nick.  Hur'll  niwer  cum  to  me? 


170  GRACE  MARY 

Luke.  Naw!  not  ef  thee  du  split  thy  droat  weth 
caaling  an'  beseeching  hur — I  say  hur  waun't  come  to 
thee. 

Nick.  By  God,  hur  shall  come  to  me!  Barzillai, 
bring  Luke  Jago  and  me  a  treble  portion  o'  the  hottest 
fire  and  brimstone  stuff  as  ye've  got  in  thee  house,  for 
to  drenk  to  my  sawl's  ruin  an'  damnation.  Dost  'ee 
'ear?     [Very  commandingly.] 

[Exit  Barzillai  into  inn. 
Nick.  Grace  Mary — harken — I've  a  sworn  that  thou 
shalt  cum  out  to  me,  an'  I'll  kape  my  word  ef  I  lose 
my  sawl  vor  it.  [Barzillai  reenters  with  liquor. 

Nick.  [Calling  up  to  window.}  I  giv'  thee  wan  more 
chance,  Grace  Mary.  If  thee  waun't  come,  I'll  drenk 
to  my  sawl's  everlasting  ruin. 

Nick  [To  Barzillai.]  Bring  the  liquor  here. 

[The  window  curtains  are  seen  to  be  clutched 

from  within. 

Nick.  Aw  !  Thee  dost  hear  me !    Come  an'  saave  me, 

my   love !      I    command   thee.      Come,    or   I'll    drenk ! 

[Takes  one  glass  from  Barzillai.   To  Luke.]  Take  thy 

glass.  Drenk  to  my  sawl's  everlasting  nun.  Will  'eecome? 

[Lifting  glass  to  lips. 
[The  grasp  on  the  window  curtains  is  relaxed. 
A  long,  terrible  shriek  from  within,  and 
the  sound  of  a  body  falling.  Nick  puts 
down  glass,  horror-stricken.  The  next 
moment  the  wraith  of  Grace  Mary  ap- 
pears outside  the  door  on  the  top  of  the 
steps. 
Nick.  Look!     Look!  [Points  at  her. 

Luke.  Look  where?    There's  nort! 


GRACE  MARY  171 

Nick.  Look !    Look !    I  tould  'ee  hur'd  come ! 

[Stands  pointing. 

Luke.  Theere's  nort  theere,  ez  theere? 

Nick.  Iss!    Iss!    Daun't 'ee  see  hur?    Josh!    Peter! 

Josh.  Naw,  naw. 

Peter.  Naw,  Nick,  I  can  see  nort. 

Barz.  Nick,  do  'ee  come  indoors,  theere's  a  good  lad, 
an*  daun't  'ee  play  weth  thy  sawl's  ruin.  Come  in  oal 
of  ye — it  feer  makes  my  blood  run  cold.    Come  in. 

[Some  of  the  men  withdraw  into  inn,  still 
looking  at  Nick,  who  stands  pointing  at 
Grace  Mary. 

Luke.  Thee'rt  mazed  weth  drenk !  I  tell  thee  there's 
nort  theere.  Come  inside,  sonnies!  Come  in  an'  lave 
the  f  ule  to  ez  awn  fuling ! 

Nick.  [Still  points.]  Look!     Look! 

[Exeunt  all  into  inn  except  Nick. 

Nick.  [Going  a  step  toward  her.]  Ez  ut  thee,  Grace 
Mary?  [Rubbing  his  eyes,  trying  to  collect  himself.] 
Spaik  to  me! 

Grace.  I've  a-come  ut  thy  bidding,  Nick !  Thy  words 
did  draw  the  very  haart  out  o'  my  body  with  luv  to 
thee. 

Nick.  Say  ut  again !  I  did  knaw  'tworn't  thy  awn 
dear  self  that  shut  the  door  on  me. 

Grace.  Thee  knawest  I  udn't.  But  thy  wickedness 
an'  evil  ways  ev  a  brokken  my  haart,  Nick. 

Nick.  I'll  change  vrom  thes  hour.  I'll  laive  all  my 
wickedness  an'  maik  myself  fit  vor  thee,  my  awn  dear 
angel. 

Grace.  Tez  vor  that  I've  come  to  thee,  to  maik  thee 
a  good  true  man  from  thez  time  foath.    Think,  my  awn 


172  GRACE  MARY 

dear  love,  as  I'm  a  watching  ovver  thee  iwery  momint 
o'  thy  life  from  this  time.  Theere's  niwer  a  deed,  nor 
a  wish,  nor  a  thought  o'  thy  haart  but  I  shall  knaw  it. 
Will  'ee  promise  me  to  strive  an'  kape  thyself  vrom 
evil,  Nick?    Tez  thy  awnly  chance  of  meeting  me  agen. 

Nick.  Iss!  Iss!  But  I  do  see  thee  naw!  Come 
nearer  to  me.    Let  me  hauld  thee  in  my  arms 

Grace.  [Fading  away  over  the  sea.]  Thee'lt  niwer 
hauld  me  in  thy  arms,  niwer  see  me  or  spaik  to  me 
agen  on  this  earth. 

Nick.  Grace  Mary!  Grace  Mary!  Daun't  'ee  laive 
me,  dear.    Daun't  'ee  laive  me ! 

Grace.  [Fading.]  I  won't  laive  'ee!  [Fading.  Nick 
goes  after  her  towards  edge  of  cliff.]  I'll  watch  auver 
'ee  to  the  end.  I  did  shut  the  door  upon  thee  to-night, 
Nick.  But  I'll  pray  vor  the  door  to  be  kipt  aupen 
wheere  I  be  gwine. 

Nick.  [With  outstretched  arms,  following  her  to  the 
cliff's  edge.]  Cum  back  to  me,  my  dear!  My  haart 
waun't  give  thee  up !  Thee'rt  tied  to  me  in  life  and 
death!    Cum  back  to  me!  [Grace  Mary  fades. 

Grace  Mary's  voice.  The  door  shall  be  kipt  aupen 
vor  'ee.    Good-bye. 

[Nick  turns  round,  bewildered,  goes  up  the 
cottage  steps,  knocks  loudly,  comes  down 
steps,  and  looks  up  at  window. 

[Enter  Isaac  from  cottage. 

Nick.  Graace  Mary — dost  'ee  knaw? 

Isaac.  Iss,  I  heerd  a  scream,  an'  I  went  upstairs, 
and  theere  hur  wor — laid  on  the  floor.  Hur  haart  ev 
brokken  vor  thee.     Hur's  dead !    What  can  us  do  ? 

Nick.  God  giv'  me  graace,  I  du  main  to  follow  hur, 
Isaac. — [Speaking   toward   the   space  where   she  has 


GRACE  MARY  173 

faded.] — I'll  follow  'ee,  my  dear.    Kape  the  door  aupen 
vor  me. — Isaac,  thee  waun't  shut  the  door  on  me  now? 
Isaac.  Come  in.    We'll  go  to  hur  together. 

[Holds  out  his  hand.    Nick  takes  it.    They  go 
into  the  cottage  together. 

OUBTAIN 


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